


Pitiful Creatures

by Flowyen



Category: Castlevania (Cartoon), 悪魔城ドラキュラ | Castlevania Series
Genre: AFAB reader - Freeform, Angst, Canon Compliant, F/M, Fluff, Gore, Mentions of past abuse, POV Second Person, Post canon, Post season three, but he needs to work through some issues first, first half is relationship and second half is Plot, fix our poor dhampir, he needs a hug, if you've seen the show this is like that, mentions of blood and death, reader was supposed to be sold as a bride and avoids it, the slowest of slow burns, there's smut now oops
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:20:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 36
Words: 141,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25318198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flowyen/pseuds/Flowyen
Summary: You will not play a passive role in your own fate.You flee through the woods, desperate to get away from your kidnappers, from the hell they want to drag you to. You will choose anything but that, even if it means taking the biggest risk of your life as you unknowingly approach a Gothic castle and ignore its clear warning of danger.You expect to be turned away, left to fend for yourself alone in a strange country inhabited by terrifying, otherworldly creatures.What youdon'texpect, is to be taken in and cared for by one of them.
Relationships: Alucard (Castlevania)/Reader, Alucard (Castlevania)/You, Alucard | Adrian Tepes | Arikado Genya/Reader, Alucard | Adrian Tepes | Arikado Genya/You
Comments: 1510
Kudos: 1520





	1. Dangerous Stakes

It is hard to run with hands bound behind your back.

Still, you manage. 

You push past the burning in your throat, your chest, your thighs. Your shoes aren’t made for running - _you_ , malnourished and weak from months of forced servility, aren’t made for running. 

Still, you manage. 

You wish that you can say the woods whip by you in a blur, leaves blending into tree trunks and whatnot, but it doesn’t. You probably aren’t moving fast enough. Each leaf, each branch seems painfully clear to you, illuminated by sun rays which otherwise might have been quite lovely. You even see the spider web as you run into it, glistening with dew drops like spun silk. Why is it that the world seems most lovely when you are about to die?

Your pursuers, slow with ale and meat but full of purpose, are catching up. You hear their heavy footsteps in the underbrush, beautiful twigs snapping under their feet, disturbed birds cawing in their wake. You won’t outlast them, you won’t outrun them. And in the scarlet dress they’ve made you wear, dirty as the garment is, you won’t be able to hide from them in the green underbrush. Still, you can’t do _nothing_ , can’t let yourself be a sold item used for their profit and your purchaser’s pleasure. Not without a fight.

You keep running, all the while struggling to get the bindings from your aching wrists. You could run so much faster if you could just get them free. 

A shadow looms before you in the afternoon sun, a tall, spired thing. There’s a building ahead, then - a castle. 

You break right, sprinting for it with all your might. You don’t know this place, this land, these legends. You don’t know if the master of the castle is as cruel as its outward appearance. You hope not, though really, what choice have you? Staying in the woods with your kidnappers wouldn’t do you any better, would it? At least the castle might yet prove a chance, hospitality. Perhaps a kind servant to take pity on you and give you some bread before sending you on your way.

It had been so long since you had bread. 

For some reason, that’s all you can think about, that one last beacon of hope that maybe, _maybe_ , after months of dejected subjugation, there was a chance you’d make it out of your waking nightmare alive after all.

Your spirits plummet when you see the bodies at the front door.

For the first time since you had slipped past the caravan guards on the edge of the woods, your resolve falters. Twin corpses, clothed in almost sacrificial white linen and rotting beyond recognition in the air, are impaled on wooden stakes flanking the steps that lead to the only entrance you can see even with the adrenaline enhancing your vision. Your wide eyes, already frightened, flicker over the obvious warning, the words _get out_ plastering themselves in your pounding head like an alarm. 

The rustling behind you grows louder, muffled shouting reaching your ears. 

What choice can you possibly make? Behind you lies a beating, slavery. Forced “marriage” to someone who wouldn't hesitate to whip you, berate you. A slow, hard death that would kill you decades before you stop breathing. Ahead lies danger, uncertainty. Cruel architecture and visceral warnings. 

And yet, foolishly taunting you from the unknown, that last shred of hope. 

You hasten up the stairs, tripping on the now tattered hem of your garment. 

“Let me in,” you beg, albeit softly, ready to shoulder the doubtlessly heavy front door should it prove necessary. “ _Please_.”

The doors are heavy enough to feel like a wall when you push against them, though you cannot see a locking mechanism, at least from your side of things. You lower your stance, try again. Duck your head and brace your shaking legs into the stones beneath your feet. 

There is the slightest budge. 

You turn, back against the door. You can see your kidnappers emerging from the treeline, their eyes scanning for you. You’ll only have time for one last kick, one chance before they come and drag you away. 

All the strength you possess, all the fear and resentment and desperation to make it though, to live another day, you put into your legs. The pressure of your arms crushed between your back and the door makes you want to cry out, give yourself away, but you can’t. You have to keep going. You shift to put more pressure on your shoulders, transfer some of the pain to something more stable. 

At last, at _last_ , the door behind you gives way. Not much, not enough to send you falling backwards, but there’s a gap between the doors behind and beside you just big enough for you to squeeze through, albeit uncomfortably. The kidnappers are reaching the pathway now, they’ve seen you. 

You have no time to hesitate before wrenching your body through the gap and into the dark castle, choosing chance over certainty, hope over submission. 

You push the door closed a bit, leaving the smallest opening for you to peer through. Should your kidnappers make it to the front steps, you’ll run. Surely there’s an old curtain or something to hide behind nearby. Were your arms not bound _behind_ you, you’d be searching for a weapon as a top priority, not that you have much experience in weaponry, but you prefer not to await your death passively while hiding in someone else’s castle if at all possible. 

Your eyes don’t leave the door, but from the sliver of the entryway you’d seen upon worming your way inside, the place seemed deserted, cold. The floor beneath you is uneven, bits of it come loose beneath your feet. 

_Maybe the castle is abandoned_ , you hope, thinking that the corpses before you are perhaps the previous occupants. Whoever they were, they hadn’t been dead _that_ long. They still have strands of dark hair clinging to their scalps. 

At least they make the burly men who pursue you pause. 

“Jesus Christ,” one breathes while the other makes the sign of the cross. The sight of their piety repulses you more than the bodies. Men who claim to be followers of god should have no use for slavery, for black market brides. 

“You saw her go in?” the other asks, his porous face red and splotchy.

“Yes, the mad bitch.”

To your relief, they pause, looking as unsure as you feel. Their beady little eyes scan the palace walls, the doors, ghosting right over you as they survey the arches, the stained glass windows. 

“Did you know this was here?” the first man asks, his piety forgotten. “I thought this was the old Belmont estate. Who put a bloody castle in the middle of the forest?”

“Dunno, but it looks expensive. Abandoned too. Wonder what sort of riches lie within.”

Your heart leaps into your throat. Are they really going to put aside their repulsion at the dead bodies, something you only managed to do from desperation, to come and _rob_ the place? Are you to be foiled by human greed in the end, after everything?

Worried, you take a few slow steps back, eyes on the door. You make to turn, to flee into some side room or corridor, somewhere no one will find you, somewhere without riches to tempt the blackened hearts of those men, anywhere but there. 

However, there’s a cold hand on the back of your neck before you can even try. 

“Are two dead bodies not enough to give the impression that I do not wish to be disturbed?” a voice says, pinning you to the spot more than the grip at the base of your skull. The tone is quiet, soft. Dark. 

Deadly. 

Your own voice, already raw with misuse and used to being kept gagged, catches in your throat. “P-please,” you manage, not wanting to be loud enough to alert your kidnappers to your proximity. “I just need to get away from _them_.”

You’d point with an undoubtedly shaking finger if you had the capability to do so. As it is, you really are helpless to whoever is holding you. _Was he the one who impaled the corpses?_  
Regardless, you can only pray that he shows more kindness than the people you escaped from. 

You feel eyes scanning your back, your bruised and bound wrists. Every passing, uncertain second feels like torture, agony. You’re sure he can feel your heartbeat, your pulse. He can probably even hear it echoing off the walls.

You swallow.

“I don’t mean to intrude or to disturb you.” Your words tumble from your mouth like a stream over rocks, quick, light. You barely even feel them coming out. “I didn’t know this castle was here. They want to hurt me, _please_.”

The cold hand pauses on your neck for a moment longer, every second agonizing. It moves with an almost shocking quickness to your shoulders, spinning you around even more rapidly. The motion isn’t harsh, admittedly, though when you catch your footing and stare at the person holding onto you so tightly, the sense of whiplash nonetheless overwhelms you. 

You have never seen such gold eyes before.

Whatever expression you’ve tried to keep, whether of determination or fear, is long forgotten. All you can do is stare ahead, some vague memory of the situation rattling around your mind as though it is empty and void of all else, as if you are dreaming. The man before you, if you could even call him a mere man, is for lack of a better word, quite breathtaking, like the sunlit leaves you passed by on your frantic dash in. His hair is like that spiderweb, impossibly fine silk.  
Had this been the person you were being sold to instead of some crotchety old man who stank of ale, perhaps you would have met your fate with a bit more willingness. 

“Would you mourn their deaths?” he asks you after a moment, perfectly still aside from the faintest motion of his lips. 

“I would not. Though,” you swallow, trying to think. “There is another by the edge of the woods watching the supplies. He might come looking as well should those two not return.”

His fair brow twitches almost imperceptibly, his eyes glint to the door. “I suppose it had to happen sooner or later,” you hear him mutter beneath his breath. 

A flash of silver flies through a darkened corridor behind him, and the beautiful man takes a hand from your shoulder to catch the thing at the last second.

 _A sword_ , you realize as he brandishes it skillfully to the side. One that is undoubtedly enchanted to obey the call of its master. _What sort of castle have you wandered into?_

“I will not tolerate trespassers, he says calmly, brushing you to the side. “Stay here. If you’ve moved so much as an inch when I return you shall be found and treated as one.”

The doors spring open of their own accord before you can process the man’s words fully, and the sudden brightness that it thrusts upon you forces you to squint and turn quickly away. 

When you look back in the direction of the woods, the golden man is gone, and the two kidnappers lie face down on the castle’s stoop, thin streams of their blood flowing down the steps.


	2. Inquisition

You do as you are told. How can you not? Whoever that man had been, it was more than clear he isn’t to be crossed, not if you still want to make it out of this palace alive. He’d left the doors open, left you with a view of the bodies and trees as you wait for his return. You think about just running away, going into the woods and hoping that you won’t bump into him again along the way, but he’d been clear. You aren’t to move an inch.

Not that you really want to, anyway. Running is a tiring thing, especially when coupled with fear and adrenaline. You sit on the castle floor, your red dress the only thing separating you from its coldness, feeling utterly spent and ultimately grateful to have just stopped moving, for your once strong muscles have grown weak with disuse. 

The world outside is still beautiful, and the painful sharpness with which it had appeared when you ran through it earlier has thankfully dissipated, to an extent. It seems softer now, less focused. Slightly less threatening, even.

The castle, from what you can tell, has, like you, seen far better days. The entrance hall is sparse, and bits of fallen glass and stone and timber litter the floor around you, though the bulk of the debris seems to have been pushed to the corners of the room and away from walking paths. You can’t help but wonder what happened to such splendor to make it appear in this lowly state, what great force had rendered it unlivable. 

You almost don’t want to know. You haven’t been caught up on current events or potential wars, not since those ruffians plucked you from a village square on account of your supposed “good breeding” and dragged you halfway across the country. You’ve heard _some_ rumors, of course, snippets from the back of the cart you rode in with a cloth over your head to protect your skin from the sun and a gag in your mouth to keep you from crying out for help. Damage to your skin cheapens your value, you’d been told, so whatever information you got from the world was filtered through closed eyes, muffled ears, and sealed lips. There had been talk of night creatures, fires, destruction. Many times the cart you rode in was deathly still in the evenings, concealed by underbrush and near-silent. You’d been warned not to make a sound those nights, but that was a threat you were used to as it was. So much was kept from you that you’d honestly never considered greater perils than the ones you faced on a daily basis until this precise moment. Now that you are free - as far as you can tell - from becoming someone’s purchased property, you can’t help but worry about all the things you hadn’t let yourself consider before.

How are you going to get to the nearest village? Will someone see your gown and recognize what you were intended to be? Is your buyer waiting nearby, furious at his lost purchase? And what _are_ night creatures, anyhow? You’ve certainly never encountered one. Is it safe to try and travel alone, to take flight to wherever you can to lay low for a few months until you are forgotten entirely?

Maybe the man will know when he returns. You are sure that he'll be back - after all, he’d instructed that you aren’t to move until he does. You’ll be patient. 

You realize that you’re hungry. You always are, of course, but you’d spent so long only being given food by the hand of others at a schedule that was wildly inconsistent that you have almost forgotten that you can just feed yourself, provided you can find some food in the first place. What a concept, that such a small, intrinsic part of your humanity could seem like such a gift to reclaim. As soon as you’re free and clear of this whole mess, you’ll eat bread, soup. Sweets - _cakes_. God, you’d forgotten about cake. Red velvet, vanilla, death by chocolate…

“It’s done,” that low voice announces as the man appears suddenly in the open doorway. He startles you so much that had you been standing, you’re positive that your knees would have buckled. 

“ _Jesus_ ,” you breathe, trying to recover from the shock. 

“No, not quite.”

You study him, able to see his full height for the first time all day. He wears simple clothes, dark trousers and a white shirt, belts low on his high hips. He cuts a slender, elegant figure in the doorway, the fading daylight giving his silhouette a sort of halo, particularly around his head, where the golden glow is amplified within his hair. You manage to tear your eyes away from him and his burning, expressionless gaze and try to glance beyond the sword held low in his hand at the murdered men, something you hadn’t had the courage to do before that moment. To your astonishment, you find that the men are gone. The only evidence that they had ever been there are the pools of blood still smearing the steps. 

“What did you do with the bodies?” you ask, more curiosity in your tone than fear, and certainly not a trace of worry. You are glad they are gone, dealt with. And the golden man seems to realize it as well. They had not been your companions. 

“I returned briefly to retrieve them while you were busy staring at the ceiling,” he remarks in a cool though not inherently malicious manner as he steps through the tall doors and into the entrance hall, giving you a wide berth. You hadn’t even noticed him come back. “I found the other you spoke of, and once he was dead, I staged the bodies along the side of the road to make it look like a simple attack should anyone stumble upon them. Nothing should lead anyone here.”

“Does it cast suspicion on me?” you wonder aloud, potentially to yourself more so than the man who looks at you inquiringly, though his expression doesn’t much change. You wonder if he’s made of stone, somehow. Stoic, emotionless. 

_Does he even feel emotion? Compassion?_ You hope so, or else you haven't really made things better for yourself in the long run. 

“Should it?” he asks after a moment, finally stepping closer to you. “Have you a history of murders?”

“God no,” you exclaim, surprised at the accusation. “I was their captured slave, they were going to sell me off to be ‘married’ when we got to town. They made it seem like someone had already bought me and they were just delivering.”

“And before you were a slave?”

The silver sword flicks at the ground, the only movement other than his measured,circular pace against the flagstones. A sign of irritation, perhaps? Caution?

“I was just some peasant girl in a valley near Germania,” you confess truthfully. “I inherited an old sheep farm secluded up the way from the village and I sold wool and my spun yarn at the market. After my absence, I doubt that it even exists anymore.” You find yourself missing the bleating sounds of your small flock of sheep upon recollection. They were likely taken in by neighboring farmers when you left, or eaten by local starving children. You feel sad for the poor things - you hadn’t let yourself think of their fate much since your own situation worsened. It was simply too painful. They were all you had. 

A glint of silver catches your eye a split second before the man brings the sword in an arc over his shoulder. It isn’t a particularly aggressive motion, more for show than function, and it isn’t aimed anywhere near you, but your guttural reaction is to flinch at the _twang_ of the blade in the air, and at the speckles of blood falling from the tip.

“Do you fear me?” he asks, looking at you from the side of his eyes.

“You saved me,” you blink, not quite sure. 

“I merely killed some trespassers,” he counters, his path around you a wide arc that gradually loses diameter. “What’s stopping me from killing one more? One who managed to break past a magic seal on my door?”

Something cold snakes through your chest, that same icy panic that propelled you through the woods clouds your thoughts. “I-I stayed where you told me to,” you stammer, desperate to retain your calm, something increasingly difficult as he walks out of your line of sight. 

“True, and your obedience has bought you time I wouldn’t normally offer under the circumstances. Though I can’t have you running out of here proclaiming to whatever impoverished, misbegotten town will listen to you of my kindness should I let you leave.”

_Should I let you leave._

Are you to be a prisoner yet?

A swoosh of air hits you from the right just as you feel the tip of that sharp sword against the skin at your throat, hovering just over your pulse as it picks up speed again, as the adrenaline spiking a full return. Your body trembles, and for once, you’re glad your hands are bound so that neither of you can see them shaking. 

“And, unless you can provide me with a reason to spare your life, what’s to stop me from impaling your pretty flesh onto a pike to prevent more annoying humans from stepping into my home?”

Seconds pass like hours. Your lips are parted in surprise, panting slightly while your mind tries with considerable effort to think of something clever, cunning. Important. You are no stranger to bargaining for your own life. You know that you’ll tell him whatever he wants to hear, if only you can figure out what that _is_.

You wish your head were clearer, that you could actually process the words he’s given to you, scan the inklings of knowledge hidden beneath their frozen layers. 

But try as you might, you draw a staggering blank.

“Look,” you sigh, hoping it is not to be your last, and decide to go for blunt honesty instead. “You are obviously very skilled with a blade, and judging from the way in which you speak, you are refinely educated as well.” You shut your eyes, feeling the tension in the room remain. “I assume that both these traits come with experience of a certain nature, and I can only hope that you are wise enough to recognize a harmless creature of prey when you see one.”

For a painfully long moment, nothing happens. The sword remains pressed against you, the air is still, and you aren't even certain that you’ve remembered to breathe. 

Then finally, _finally_ , the sword is removed, and you are released.

“I had thought myself capable of that once,” the man admits with just the slightest hint of melancholy that might be imagined on your part. “Though generosity and trust need only be betrayed once to never be given freely again.”

The swish of the sword rings in the air, and your heart skips a beat. Your hands fall loose at your sides, but it takes the painful rolling of your shoulders to jolt you into realizing that the man has cut your bonds, not your throat. 

With a muffled moan, you tug the lead-like limbs to where you can see them, wincing at both the unfamiliar movement of your joints and the tenderness of your irritated flesh. The sleeves of your dress mingle with fresh friction burns, stinging and caked in half-dried blood. 

You frown at yourself, and when you look back up, the man is standing before you, looking down the bridge of his refined nose, sword down and to the side. Somehow, despite the darkness to the hall, he seems to catch the light, shimmer with it. 

It is very nearly as unsettling as it is beautiful. 

“Stand,” he commands in a somewhat bored tone. “I will wrap your wounds, _creature of prey_ , should you be so inclined as to let me.”

There’s something about how still he holds, and again you’re reminded of statues made of marble. 

You gather your skirts in your twitching palms, happy to have that freedom again after tripping on your own dress every time you wanted to stand for the weeks on the road. You bend one leg beneath you, then the other, and you push off the same way that you had opened the door -

Only to fall back to the ground with a cry of pain. _Your ankle_ , you think. _Twisted, snapped_.

Darkness clouds your vision while the pain fades away unbearably slowly, and when you open your eyes, the man has slightly lifted the hem of your dress with his sword tip, examining your left ankle in its flimsy red slipper.

“Broken,” he confirms with a long suffering sigh. “Covered up by your body’s response to fear, no doubt.”

You are astounded that you hadn’t noticed before - it causes you even more pain now than the stinging aftermath of the bindings on your wrists. It must have happened when you jumped out of the wagon. Perhaps you somehow rolled it on landing and were too focused on fleeing to notice.

He lets go of the sword, but instead of clattering to the floor, it hovers just within his reach, should he need it. Were you not still afraid of making a false move and ending up skewered on the blade yourself, you might laugh at how much precaution he is taking for someone as decidedly nonthreatening as you. Maybe you should feel flattered.

All thoughts of laughter leave as he hauls you gasping to your feet. He wraps one of his arms around your waist, and drapes your own across his broad shoulders, much to the protestation of your tense joints. 

“Walk on your good foot,” he instructs. “Lean into me.”  
There is a definite stiffness to his body, now that you’re so close, as if he loathes the feeling of your torso pressed against his. He doesn’t struggle under your added weight at all, however, and the stooping of his frame is mostly for your own benefit, seeing as he is considerably taller than you. You do as you’re told, focusing on just making it to wherever the man is taking you. You realize that you should probably ask for his name soon, and a small part of you wants to do so immediately so as to provide some sort of reprieve from the award silence in which you find yourselves. Somehow, though, you do not think that blurting out such a question is wise.

You settle for watching the dark corridors drag by, and while you don’t go down any stairs, you get the sinking suspicion that you are being led deeper down into the castle with each step. 

Given everything else that has happened today, you wouldn’t be that surprised if the man at your side is leading you to a cell.


	3. Conditions

As it turns out, you are led to the most normal place you could have possibly imagined to exist in a palace such as the one you find yourself in. You aren’t led to a prison cell or some lavish, sadistic boudair. Not even a medical room filled with sharp objects and questionable vials - though you don’t doubt the palace to hide at least one room of each type.

You are led to a _kitchen_.

And not a creepy, butcher-centered, industrial thing, either. This is a place of shocking normalcy, of, dare you think, _coziness_. Though grander than anything you have ever been in back home, the kitchen would not look out of place residing in a cottage - though it is nearly as big as a standard cottage itself was so perhaps it would look rather out of place after all. Still, there is a bundle of lavender hanging to dry over the sink that seems to quietly suggest safety, mudanity.

In your state of shock both from the room’s appearance and your injuries coupled with the realization that you are even still alive, you don’t register that the man is _picking you up_ until you are already sitting on the counter beside a wide, porcelain sink. At the press, or the twist, rather, of a metal dial next to a spout, water pours _of its own accord_ out of a faucet with no pumping or buckets of water required. If you weren’t already stunned silent, that would have shut you up for a while as you tried to wrap your head around what exactly was producing the tiny stream.

Still, you have enough wits about you to notice that the enchanted sword is hovering quietly nearby, almost protectively in nature. 

The man reaches into a few cabinets, pulling out several bottles of things you don’t recognize, as well as that which you do. Aloe leaves, mint. Honey. Whoever he is, he seems well versed in the treatment of wounds. Now that you get a better look of him in clear, albeit fading sunlight, you wonder if he ever has his own wounds to tend. If he got any while offing your kidnappers, if you could later exploit that with a swift kick or punch should his hospitality wear thin. 

“Wrists,” he prompts, holding his hand out to take yours. 

To your credit, you only hesitate a moment, more so out of the anticipated sting of the water than fear of the man. _Yet_.

He inspects your wrists, assessing the damage with a tilt of his head. “How attached are you to the fabric of your dress?” he asks after a moment, still studying you. 

“I’d be glad to see it burn,” you admit.

This earns you a curious glance up and a raised eyebrow from the man. 

“Preferably not with me still in it,” you clarify with a slight blush to your skin. 

His unsettling golden eyes return to your hands, and in a move that you almost miss for its swiftness, he creates two sharp tears in the stiff red fabric until it flaps open around your elbows, revealing skin that has not seen the sunlight in months. With two comparatively slower moves, for he seems to realize that the abruptness of the first ones had startled you, he rips away the excess fabric, leaving you ready for treatment. 

Before touching you further, he runs his own hands under the water, scrubbing at them meticulously with a bar of lavender-lye soap sitting nearby. 

Everything he does is silent, measured. And when he takes one of your wrists at a time and runs them under the magical stream of water, which you find to be quite cold, he is no different, turning your arm so that all angles of the wound are covered.

“Does it hurt?” he asks when starting on the second wrist. 

“Yes,” you breathe, though you had been careful not to show it. The pain isn’t the worst you have experienced in your life, and your throbbing ankle hurts more than your wrists do at the moment. 

“Good,” he replies, though not cruelly. He sounds far from enjoying himself, from your pain or otherwise. “The damage is not bad, then. I doubt you’ll even retain scars as evidence of your little… escapade.”

A bit of indignation flares in your chest at his blase, bored tone. You would hardly call running away from certain doom while bound in a mysterious forest an _escapade_.

You hold your tongue, however, trying distinctly not to bite the hand that feeds you while it is still offering food. 

“Tell me,” he continues, spreading a mixture of honey and cool aloe over your puckered skin with his soft, bare fingers. “Who exactly was purchasing a creature like you? A count? Nobility?” His eyes shift to look at you out their corners again. “A vampire looking for a plaything, perhaps?”

There’s something about the way his mouth closes, about the words he’d said earlier…

You still can’t put your finger on it. 

“I hardly know,” you admit, shifting position for him to better wrap the bandages he reaches for. “They had money, though. Apparently I sold for a high price.”

“Higher than the others in your position who obediently accepted their fate? I can’t imagine why.”

You aren’t sure if that is a joke or not, but you don’t elaborate. You still don’t know his motives, after all, and there is something unsettling about the way he moves, the stillness of him you had taken note of in the hall. 

He ties your bandages securely but not tightly. He’s quite skilled at wrapping, you notice, flexing your fingers. Your two hands have exact mirror images of bandages, both fashioned in a loop around your thumb to keep everything secure and fully covered without sacrificing mobility. 

_So he doesn’t want your hands bound_ , you think to yourself, watching him step back from the sink once the water is turned off.

“Get down,” he tells you, offering a forearm for stability. You grab it with one arm and scoot your way off the counter with the other, careful to land on your good ankle. His limb is as unmoving as a steel beam. 

He leads you hopping to a sturdy table that is more centrally located in the kitchen, once again lifting you onto its surface as if you weigh no more than a bushel of apples. You swing your legs up over the side, and recline back on your elbows at his wordless instruction while he inspects your ankle, cold hands running across your inflamed skin like ice. 

After a moment, he asks for your name. 

“My what?”

“What am I to call you? Unless you prefer 'Creature of Prey,' which I have no qualms continuing with.”

You bite your lip for a moment, studying the strange man before you, trying to figure out what he wants, why he cares. 

If he just wants to take advantage of you like everyone else.

You take a deep breath, staring at him evenly. “It’s -”

A flash of movement and then a sickening _crunch_ reverberates through your body, effectively morphing your speech into a near silent scream of pain. 

The man had either just ripped your foot off or-

“I reset the bone,” he clarifies, palms hovering face up towards you in a show of relent.

“You could have warned me,” you wheeze, all decorum temporarily forgotten. 

“You would have tensed. Try to move your toes, if you can. Otherwise I’ll have to do something else.”

You stare at him with a mixture of such intense hate that he actually looks away. With a huff, you stare down at your bare foot, and with all your effort and gritted teeth, manage to curl your toes just slightly. 

The man nods, satisfied. “I’ll make you a splint, then.”

You flop back against the hard table, your weariness finally catching up with you as you realize just how awful you feel. The parts of you which aren’t bleeding or broken are bruised and sore, and you become aware of a pounding in your head that normally doesn’t appear unless you’d spent too long in a tavern the night prior. 

_Alcohol_ , you realize, adding it to the list of things you want to consume with your newfound freedom. _Bread, cakes, booze…_

Your stomach growls just thinking about it, but you find you’re too tired and hurt to care much, though it doesn’t escape the notice of the man who finishes tying up something stiff around your mending ankle. 

“You’re hungry.”

_One thing at a time_. You aren’t going to eat until you know you have a place to stay, whether that means banking on a stranger’s very limited supply of generosity or hobbling to some nearby village before nightfall - though judging by the dimness outside the kitchen windows, night will be upon you before you know it, and you really don’t want to be tossed into the wilderness again, not when the dead captors are lying in the woods just waiting to be discovered, if they haven’t been already. What town would offer sanctuary to an injured woman wearing a black market bride’s dress so close after the suspicious murder of three men?

You aren’t even sure where you are, or if you should mention that fact to the man with you in the kitchen. He’s left the tableside, putting away the various items he’d brought out to aid you, though he keeps some bandages and aloe within easy reach. _Does he intend to redress these in the future?_ You wonder.

You make no move to ask. You make no move at all, simply staying still on the table and waiting for something to happen. 

“Do you plan on laying there all night as well or would you like something better to sleep on?” he asks in a tone bordering on snide. He’s making an effort to appear inhospitable, uninterested, and yet he’d dressed your wounds and set your ankle. At any rate, it is probably safe to assume that you are no longer in immediate danger of ending up as another lawn ornament. 

“Are you offering me… a bed?” you manage to croak, craning your head up awkwardly to look at him. “For the night?”

“Unless you’d like to face the things in Wallachian wilderness instead, though I might add that if I had any intent of sacrificing you to the night creatures just yet I wouldn’t have bothered to heal you.”

There was that again: _night creatures_.

Perhaps they do exist, then, but their mention isn't the only thing he says that makes you freeze.

“ _Wallachia?_ ” you stammer in surprise before you can stop yourself. “I’m that far east?”

Suddenly his comment about vampires’ pets makes far more sense. The region in which you find yourself is particularly steeped in blood-sucking folklore, and if you were wary of the night before, you are utterly terrified of it now.

“Did you really not know?” the man inquires, the first bit of compassion that you’d heard all day creeping into his sultry voice. _No, not compassion_ , you correct. _Pity_.

Not that you’ve heard enough of either in your life to be able to tell apart the difference. 

“They never told me anything, and I couldn’t see most of the time. I guess I forgot how long I’ve been traveling for, all the days seem to blur into one.”

You stare fixedly at a place on the floor, mind reeling as you try to recall how you even managed to end up in Wallachia, what rocky paths or empty meadows the horse carriage had taken you through. The last town you were in for more than a few days was still on the border of Franca and Germania, which means that you had somehow doubled back past your own little village without even noticing on your journey _here_. 

A shuffling of sorts to your right snaps you thankfully back into the present. The blond man is stooped before what looks to be a vertical metal box, rummaging around inside. When he closes the swinging door, you feel a brush of coldness against your skin. More magic, most likely. You see something bright red for a moment, among other objects, but they are all wrapped beneath the folds of a white cloth before you can steal a closer look. The cloth is tied to form a bundle, and he hands it to you by the knot.

“Dinner,” he explains curtly, motioning for you to sit up. 

You manage to, slowly, head reeling. If the man notices your disorientation, he doesn’t say anything. He remains completely wordless as he drapes one of your arms around his shoulders again, careful to avoid your wrists, and leads you out of the kitchen, but not before he grabs a half-empty bottle of wine resting corked on the counter, though whether he intends to give that you you or save it for himself you cannot say. 

You move slowly on your reset ankle, though it does admittedly feel more stable than it had before the man had wrenched it back into place. _He still doesn’t know your name_ , you think, realizing at the same time that you don’t know his either. It almost seems too late, at the moment. 

When the both of you reach a tall set of stairs, you pause. You can feel your face pale at the effort of making it up all of them, and you are certain that you’d prefer to just sleep spread out on the floor. After all, you’d slept on worse. 

“Shall I just carry you up?” the man asks, sounding as exhausted as you feel. You manage to turn to him, trying to read his face. 

You find nothing but an empty expression and intelligent, steadfast eyes that do not betray any particular meaning looking back. 

Still, you have questions, and yet, if you ask too many, you are afraid he might turn you away instead. 

“You want to carry me up all those stairs?” you say with a raised eyebrow and more strength than you had expected upon first opening your mouth. “Aren’t you afraid that you’ll trip or something and I’ll fall on top of you?”

He tilts his head at you, a bit of confusion cracking through his schooled features. “What an odd sort of thing to ask,” he muses.

You slip out of his grip and cross your arms, well, you attempt to with the bundle and bandages tying you down. It’s harder to balance on one foot by yourself than you expect, and your intimidating stance is ruined by your slow tumble backwards. 

With an arrogant sigh, the man reaches one arm beneath your back and the other beneath your knees. Somehow the wine bottle makes its way into your lap.

“I’ll not drop you so long as you don’t drop the wine,” he says, focusing at a spot ahead. 

You press your knees together and hold yourself stiffly in his grasp, pressing slightly against his chest with your shoulder. Your hands are folded into your chest, and while you consider wrapping an arm around him again, the sudden certainty that you would end up accidentally punching him in the face stops you cold. 

You have to settle for looking behind him instead, down the steps already climbed and at the sword hovering nearby, acting as a sentinel. 

_No sudden moves_.

Not that you are planning on it. 

You make it up the main staircase and through a hallway or two, all the while being carried like a… well, bride. The thought that you have no idea where the man is taking you sits firmly in your mind and burrows into your chest like a poison, gnawing its way to the forefront of your attention until you have no choice but to ask.

“Are we nearly there?” you manage in a small voice. 

His gold eyes tilt down to you momentarily, bright even within the darkness. You begin to wonder if, like the water and the metal box of cold air, his eyes aren’t some kind of magic themselves. Perhaps they can see in the dark. 

“Are you… uncomfortable?”

“I just want to know where we’re headed, that’s all.”

This earns you a slightly annoyed sniff, though he doesn’t stop walking. “A bedroom. I would have left you in the servant’s quarters for their proximity to the kitchen, but they are not furnished.”

“You mean… you don’t have servants?” How could a palace of this size not have groundskeepers? Cooks? There was no denying that it was in a state of great disrepair, but surely the staff hadn’t been let go because of that?

“I don’t have anyone,” he replies with more coldness than the kitchen box. 

You keep yourself from shuddering, barely. So the two of you really are alone in this place. No one will hear you scream if he comes looking for you in the night, if it does ultimately turn out that you have escaped one bad ending only to land in the middle of another. 

Still, he could have had his way with you before. He didn’t need to kill the men who’d stolen you. In all likelihood, he could have just as easily bought you off them for a higher price than what the other buyer had agreed to spend. But you had seen the first two die, and had no reason to doubt that the man had done the same to the third. He cleaned you up, healed you, carries you with that resolute stillness, almost gliding across the flagstones as he leads you down a narrow, tapestry-lined corridor. 

“Hold onto the wine,” he instructs, easing you down before a cherry wood door made with a rounded arch. 

You grip it firmly by the neck, along with the mysterious items which constitute ‘dinner,’ and are set on your good foot first. You lean against the wall as the door pushes open, though you don’t see the man’s hand touch it. 

You add the door to the list of potentially enchanted items. And speaking of which, the sword chooses to glint just then, a gentle reminder to take the hospitality given to you.

“I trust you’ll find this...adequate?” He gestures smoothly with his left hand, inviting you to inspect the room yourself. 

Your one hope of the moment is that it isn’t some depraved sex chamber, which, judging from the rest of the gloomy, oppressive castle, wouldn’t be too out of place. 

To your delight, however, you are met with a wonderfully ordinary, if not extravagantly ornate, bedroom, with a finely carved bed frame with blankets and pillows. _Good lord, they’re probably made with real feathers_ , you think giddily to yourself. 

The bed sits to the right of you as you face in, against the far wall which houses a magnificently tall, diagonally-paned window in its center. To the left of that, a writing desk, on which sits a generous stock of unlit candles. There are even matches placed conveniently beside them. 

Granted, the whole room is made entirely of cold gray stone and seems to be covered in a fine layer of dust, implying that nobody has slept there for quite some time, but you can’t find it in yourself to care. You haven’t slept on anything but straw palates and wooden cart floors for the last three months, and even before then, your own bed at home could hardly have been considered a luxury, a sack stuffed with sun-dried meadow grass and the occasional unfortunate bug. 

You never thought you’d cry from flopping onto a mattress. Well, not happy tears, at least.

The door stays open as you shuffle-hop your way inside, still holding the wine carefully to your chest. You can feel the man watching you as you take in your surroundings, awe-filled. There’s another door in the wall at the foot of the bed, leading to… where, exactly?

“That’s the washroom,” he explains patiently, as if speaking to a child, doubtless seeing your confusion. “Pull the lever when you’ve relieved yourself. And the sink operates like the kitchen. Don’t get your wrappings wet.”

Seemingly done with the most basic of explanations, he turns to step out of the hallway, and the door starts to close of its own accord. 

“Wait!” you call after him, trying to make it before you lose sight of him, sure that he’ll disappear like a ghost the second you do.

He pauses, quiet footsteps growing silent. His back remains facing you, but his head is turned slightly over his left shoulder, waiting. 

You should thank him and be done with it, be grateful he’s leaving with you the human decency of a good night’s sleep. 

“What is this place, really?” you say instead, equal parts wonder and suspicion mixed in your question. 

For a moment, you’re certain that he isn’t going to answer, that he’ll just walk away and forget to come back. 

“You may call me Alucard. Figure the rest out for yourself.”

And with that, the door closes. You stare at the wood for a moment, too stunned to do much else. _Alucard?_ The name as it is isn’t familiar to you in the slightest.

Setting the matter aside, you make it to the bed, tired leg already burning once again from the effort. You stir up a bit of the dust as you plop down, but you’re far too distracted by just how deeply you sink into the thing to notice. 

“Is it _all_ feathers?” you wonder aloud, bouncing up and down a few times to test the theory.

The wine sloshes in your hand, and you remember the next scrap of excitement. _Dinner_.

You set the bottle on the small bedside table, pulling at the bundle of food desperately. You see the red again, and pleasantly find it to be an apple, a perfectly ripe, waxen thing that makes you salivate just by sight. A block of yellow cheese is next, smelling strongly but not pungently. The last time you’d had cheese, it had come from sheep’s milk, which doesn’t coagulate nearly as much as the firm specimen you hold before you. 

Lastly, you discover with a cry of ecstasy that you have been gifted a third of a loaf of thick, hearty bread, crust crackling and golden. It smells of honey, and when you take a greedy mouthful, you can feel tears finally breaking through the end of your long, uncertain day. 

It isn’t even stale.


	4. Self Control

Alucard doesn’t intend to sleep that night. Not that he sleeps much as it is, but given the current circumstances, it isn’t even an option. He cannot see into your room from his bedchamber - his _new_ bedchamber, anyway. He refuses to go back to the old one, and he knows it will become yet another room of misery he will never again enter, just like his mother’s room, his father’s, his own from childhood. Perhaps the day will come when he cannot enter any of the rooms in his house without inflicting some kind of new pain upon himself. 

_Well, at least that will be nothing new,_ he thinks.

The sun has faded now, leaving the world etched in darkness. The lights on his bedside table glint off the sword hovering nearby. Sentient and magical as it is, cold metal is a poor substitute for human contact, though Alucard is far from desiring that anytime soon. Just carrying you up from the kitchen had been an act which required his utmost concentration, carefulness. A month prior he might have been kinder, more civil. More receptive to your tale of woe, briefly though you spoke of it. You seem nice enough, though presently rather quiet, and perhaps he might once have been glad for the company another person could offer. He’d certainly missed Trevor and Sypha, at any rate.

But life has changed since then, and now the only thing Alucard can think of is what you might want to do to him, what tricks you could be so bold as to try and fool him with. What tricks he _could_ be fooled by.

You are fragile, human. Impossibly outmatched. He can kill you in a dozen ways without so much as a second thought, though to do so is against his nature, or so he hopes. At the same time, he’d been bested before by your kind, by humans who had fed off his charity and paid it back with a betrayal of a most dark and sinister nature which still haunts his nightmares and leaves a bitter ache in his chest, adding to the gaping, lonely chasm that already existed long before.

So, the sword stays. The intimidation stays. He won’t harm you, not _yet_ , anyway, not unless you give him a motive. The broken ankle is certainly a setback, a reason to keep you around longer than necessary. 

But can you be trusted to leave once you've healed? Will you run to the nearest ungodly priest and blabber on about the dhampir in the castle over the old Belmont manor? If you yourself are not the sort of creature that terrorizes his thoughts, would you not then bring more of those things in the aftermath of your wake? Can you be trusted to keep a vow of silence? Can he make one of magic for you to swear by?

Can he even take such a risk as letting you go?

The sun stays hidden for one of the longest nights he remembers for the warmth of the season, and all throughout it, he listens in a huddled tangle of fully clothed limbs on his too-big bed for even the faintest of footsteps at his door, the soft predatory passing of betrayal disguised as friendship, as lust.

Needless to say, they never materialize, though that doesn’t ease his suspicions.

He’s going mad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short update, will be followed very soon with something more substantial :)


	5. A New Day

You never want to leave the bed. With no small difficulty, you’d shed your dress the night before, leaving yourself in only the barest of undergarments in which to slip mercifully into the sheets that feel like heaven against your skin used to rough hands and materials alike. You are full of food that had actual flavor and slightly drunk off rather good wine which you had practically swallowed whole in one go straight from the bottle. Sleep had come easily and quickly for you, and if you had nightmares, as was often the case, the morning sunlight streaming through your window has blocked them out entirely. For once, your back doesn’t ache from the harshness of your bed. Your ankle has obviously felt better, and your wrists itch, but they smell of honey and earthiness, and the stench of your unwashed, uncared for dress discarded in a heap on the floor cannot reach you behind the feathery comforter in which you’ve wrapped yourself, safe from all the pains of the outside world. 

You are not, however, safe from the pains of your inner world, and find very quickly that you rather badly need to relieve yourself before you do so all over your newly found safe haven. 

Cursing the coldness of morning against your comfortably warm skin, you swing your legs out from under the covers, noting the minor cuts and bruises marring their surface from your flee the day prior. _Has it really been less than a day?_ Only hours ago, you had been on the verge of almost certain death, tasted it’s tang with each stumble of your feet over a branch, each glance behind you sure to bring the sight of a strong arm wrapping around your throat.

Perhaps it was the euphoria of successfully escaping such an incident which led you to overlook the dangers of the situation in which you currently find yourself, you think, making your way for the washroom door and finding that your ankle is both swollen and still very much broken. The man - Alucard - has treated your wounds, sure, and offered you his own food, seemingly, but you had been incredibly trusting in the assumption that he was working for your benefit. The food could have been tampered with, poisoned. He’d had ample time to sneak back in while you assumed he was killing and hiding the bodies. You of all people know to be more careful than to take things from strangers so willingly. In fairness, however, you had been desperate. And tired. And even so, foolish all the same. 

Still, you marvel at the functions of the castle. You’re astounded by the washroom’s capabilities, and you’ve never seen such an advanced chamber pot. The sink knobs produce both hot and cold water, and you are convinced that you could spend hours switching back and forth one day when you aren’t restricted to just wetting the tips of your fingers. The copper bathtub in the corner - yes, real _copper_ \- spurs you into even more thoughts, namely, those around a hot bath, something that you’ve never had the luxury of experiencing for yourself. 

Oddly enough, the one thing the opulent washroom lacks is a mirror. You had a small one back in your home, and of course you had access to streams and still, tranquil ponds, so while you are inherently aware of your own reflection, you are curious as to how it’s changed since your arrival, if you are still the same person you remember being before everything went wrong. By touching your cheeks, you find that you feel hollowed out, thin. 

Perhaps it is for the best that you can’t see for yourself.

You comb out your tangled hair using your fingers with only minor success, though you pluck enough small twigs out of the unruly mass to create the start of a bird’s nest.

From beyond the washroom, your red dress stares morosely at you. 

With a heavy amount of revulsion, you go to pull it on. It’s awful, as if you are a snake trying to climb back into your own shed skin, something that no longer fits and serves no purpose other than some sort of ingrained sense of modesty. It smells like sweat and fear, the seams are stiff with it and with other notes of spilled ale and the inevitable horse stench one picks up after being in close proximity to the creatures for long enough. 

You briefly wonder what might have happened to the cart horse when the sound of very audible footsteps in the hall pricks up at your ears. They aren’t _loud_ footsteps, exactly, they just echo, the hard sole of a boot against stone. 

Not malicious, just present. 

You haven’t managed to lace yourself back into your dress entirely when two curt knocks hit your door. Your fingers are proving fickle in this matter, and bits of your white shift peek out along the top and sides of your tunic-like bodice. It would be easier if you had a mirror. 

The knock comes again, and you give up trying to lace the damned thing, making your haggard way to the source instead.

For a moment, your hand fumbles at the door latch, trying to just pull when it seems you also have to squeeze it together in order for the door to become unstuck. _That will take some getting used to_ , you think, managing to wrench the thing open at last. 

Alucard stands about an arm’s length away, strange gold eyes flickering over your body observantly. They pause at the state of your tunic, but quickly snap back up. 

_Those_ , you realize with the sudden, startling clarity you suspect comes from a restful night of sleep, _are not the eyes of a human_.

You swallow.

“It appears as though you’ve gained some mobility,” his calm voice remarks, almost eerily smooth. It is broad daylight, yet somehow you feel as if the world is still dark - at least in your mind, which seems to know nothing other than that penetrating gaze. 

And the name, _Alucard_... It isn’t common, you’d certainly not heard it before, but the shape of it seems familiar somehow, tugging on the back of your mind.

“I can hop a bit,” you admit, keeping much of yourself safely behind the door and leaning on it for much needed support. “Stairs seem to be a bit much still.”

He nods, as if in resigned agreement. “I thought as much. Human bones don’t heal overnight.”

_Human bones_. He’d said something like that the night before, you remember. You’d been in too much shock and pain to think into it. But now…

You try not to shudder. 

He doesn’t move, but you sense the offer on his arm nonetheless. “Shall I make your trip down to lunch easier? Or would you prefer I let you slide down the balustrade?”

Is that... a _joke_? You feel a bit of surprise jump to your face, and judging by the way his brows twitch up, he hadn’t been expecting it himself.

“I’m afraid I’m not versed in the art,” you laugh, a little nervously. “I can’t see that going very well.”

The very corner of Alucard’s lip twitches up ever so slightly before it falls back into a graceful, flat line. “Indeed.”

The trip back down to the kitchen is much the same as the trip leading upstairs the night prior, with Alucard carrying you down the stairs and then just continuing to do so once he hits level flooring, all the way to the kitchen. It is easier to pay attention to things - the world seems to move more slowly today, and you are thankfully unworried about dropping a wine bottle or your own dinner. Alucard sets you at the middle of the kitchen dining table, where a bowl of steaming vegetable soup waits with a spoon set beside it. 

“I assumed that you would be hungry?” 

You’d had soup in the last few months of your travels, but it had been cold, watery. And the vegetables had been shriveled, nearly nonexistent even. Upon digging around with your spoon to find a bit of soup to let cool, you find that the carrots, potatoes, peas, and other finely chopped vegetables are thick and well grown, and when you take your first bite, you’re reminded of the items you used to trade wool for back home, and even then, those crops weren’t nearly as well formed as what slides down your throat with a contented sigh. 

With the aforementioned lack of staff, Alucard has obviously made this himself for you. You alone, apparently, for he does not make to join you, instead standing by the counter near the sink a ways behind you and looking in your general direction. He isn’t watching you, per se, but he is keeping an eye out. You’ve seen the sword, of course, floating around, but it seems to keep a greater distance today, and at present, sits dormant near the cold box. Perhaps Alucard is starting to trust you, or at the very least, see you as less of a threat. 

“Do you have a garden here?” you ask between spoonfuls, genuinely curious. 

“Planning to make off with my tomatoes before running out into the night?” 

Another joke?

You contemplate your response, carefully. “I hardly think I’d get very far, both on account of my ankle and the fact that I have no idea where I am or where I plan to go.” You stir the soup thoughtfully. “This is just good, better than what I’ve had. I was curious.”

You hope honesty is the best sort of happy medium with which to respond to Alucard’s ambiguous, mordant barbs. You aren’t sure how he’d respond to you snarking back at him, and so long as his own tongue stays mostly civil, you don’t mind a jab now and again. Perhaps in time you can build up some sort of banter, when there is more trust between the pair of you. If you stick around long enough to see it happen, that is. 

He’s quiet for a moment, seemingly contemplative. “There’s much to be found in the wild. Not many people come here, and the forest is an ample provider.”

So if there was a theoretical tomato stash, you’d have to forage for it just like anyone else. Good to know.

Alucard pours you out a second bowl of soup, and you eat it happily, enjoying the still unfamiliar sensation of a full stomach. When you look back at him next, a fresh set of bandages and more aloe and honey sit out on the counter beside where he stands with arms crossed. When you push the soup bowl away from you, Alucard takes it, sets it in the sink, and brings over the wrappings as well as a fresh bowl filled with water and sporting a cloth dangling over its side. 

He kicks out the chair beside you with an effortless, fluid motion. Wordlessly, he asks for your wrists, unwrapping the bandages and inspecting the angry red skin there. You’re shocked to see the transformation. Raw, pink flesh that looks like a bad sunburn sits under a peeling layer of soft, almost goey skin wet with salve. Still, at least you aren’t bleeding anymore, and as gruesome as your wrists look, it is an improvement, however slight.

Alucard takes the wet rag and starts to gently dab at the skin, pausing when he hits particularly sensitive areas that make you hiss and grip the table with your opposite hand. You are more keenly aware of everything today without the barrier of shock to help numb your senses. You keep the hand that he holds in a loose fist so as not to instinctively lace your fingers through his, something that seems far too intimate for the utter lack of knowledge on him you possess.

“Do you have a lot of experience with treating injuries?” you ask with gritted teeth just for something to say, watching the careful, skilled motions of his deft hands and hoping that you do not come across as judgmental or too inquisitive.

He takes a moment to reply, a look of thoughtfulness passing over his delicate features. “I grew up practicing medicine,” he answers, each word careful. “I had a wonderful teacher.”

“Is there a lot of occasion for you to need to treat wounds?”

Alucard presses on a fragile spot a little too firmly, and you jolt. 

“Apologies,” he mutters, continuing on. The one wrist is almost done, and he has you move your arm to the side, elbow pressing into the table so he can get to work on your other wrist. As he moves, the low cut in his white shirt - the same shirt he had worn yesterday, you realize - moves aside a bit, giving you a clear view of a particularly dark, angry scar that spans all of what you can see of his chest. There are fainter scars too, and when he had first rolled up his sleeves to start cleaning your wounds, you subconsciously noticed an almost lattice-like pattern cutting across his forearms that you had been too distracted to see the night prior. You find faint outlines of the same pattern along his chest as well, but he shifts in his seat and it’s all gone. 

“The usefulness of my skills varies from month to month,” he finally sighs. “In the past, things like this were once commonplace for me. Nowadays it’s much quieter here.”

“Were you a warrior, then?”

It would make sense, battle scars paired with the sword in addition to medical knowledge that would rival what your village healers have access to. Alucard pauses, tilting his head and daring to meet your eyes for a moment.

“If I am to answer all your questions, it seems only fair that you should be inclined to answer mine in return.”

Ah, conditions. Still, your curiosity and need to know exactly who and what you are working with outweighs any benefits of anonymity, so you agree, something which seems to take him by surprise. You can always just lie, you know. Or refuse to answer. Besides, it will give you something to focus on other than raw, burning flesh. 

“I was,” Alucard admits simply. “Briefly. It was as equal a part of my education as doctoring.”

“Same teacher as the one who taught you medicine?”

A tiny smile replaced by sadness and then impassivity. “No. Different teachers, different knowledge, although one was hardly ignorant of the other.”

He seems so honest, so truthful. He’s holding back information, of course, but you plan on doing the same when the questions turn to you, if you’re able. Satisfied with the route your own inquiry seems to have landed you at, you wait for Alucard to begin his. 

“How much do you know about this place?” 

You blink, not having expected that question. You thought he’d ask something about your past again, where exactly you were from, what you had done to get yourself kidnapped, if you knew anyone who could come and take you off his rather gentle, shapely hands…

You clear your throat. “Of Wallachia or… this, uh, castle?”

“Either. Both.”

You had already admitted to not knowing where you are yesterday when Alucard’s hand was pressed to your neck, so there is no harm in admitting that again. Ignorance and naivety are dangerous shortcomings to possess, and the last thing you want is to be taken advantage of for them. However, this particular knowledge isn’t really the kind you can invent on the spot.

“I know very little of Wallachia,” you start, voice slow as you try and phrase things with as much intelligence and decorum as you can muster - after all, Alucard speaks with the utmost elegance himself and it seems only right that you attempt to match it. “I remember rumors of the place being overrun by vampires, though I can’t remember them fully, nor am I from a region where much experience or even belief exists on the subject. As far as this castle goes…” you take a cursory glance around the kitchen. “I really only have what I can see to go off.”

“And what _can_ you see?” he asks, innocently. Indulgently. 

“You’ve got magic pipes,” you start, holding up a finger on the hand he isn’t tending to. “Which also extend to the washroom upstairs, somehow. This place was obviously splendidly wealthy once, but… well, something’s happened here recently, right? If the debris in the entryway is anything to go off of. You’ve got a magic box that keeps food cold, bundles of medical supplies and knowledge, access to your own food sources, and all of this you live with alone.”

His eyes narrow. “I didn’t realize you were so observant amidst all your panic, if a little too reliant on using magic to justify scientific advancements. Though I suppose you aren’t entirely to blame on that account.”

_Science_? Well that certainly isn’t allowed, is it? Has the church somehow miraculously changed its policies during your three month voyage or are rules just wildly different in Wallachia?

“Have you drawn a conclusion from the results of your observations or shall I leave you to collect more?”

Spoken like a man of science, though he does seem to be leading you on… but to what end? What information does he want you to guess from him?

“I’ve seen enough,” you decide slowly, watching him tie up your wrists with the same care he showed yesterday. “Though what conclusion you expect me to arrive at I cannot say.”

“Surely you’ve managed to figure some things out. The nature of my tenure here, for example, the nature of my being.”

Those golden eyes flash at you, stunning with their brilliance, their deadliness, even. You gather up what little observations you’ve made of him, the eyes, the way light seems to cling to his being like dew to grass or a veil over a face. How he seems to stay so still when not in motion, but then practically glides through the air when walking, when carrying you down two flights of grand, dark stairs as if you weighed nothing at all. 

_He doesn’t belong here_ , you think, suddenly. He suits the kitchen, perhaps, but not the gravity - defying castle spires or the black marbled stairs, the blood-red decorative banners. Not in the plainclothes he’s wearing anyhow, though you have no doubt he’d look just as good in gothic regalia more fitting of the place. The person who must have originally owned this castle undoubtedly possessed a far greater flare for the dramatic than the well bred, tightly lipped, and softly spoken man you have sitting before you, his every move captivating. And the name, _Alucard_. Again, something familiar to that distant name, something in the shape of it. 

You fidget a bit in your seat, wishing your hair was nicer and your dress clean. As it stands, you must offer nothing to Alucard in terms of looks, not when he must face himself in the mirror everyday. You’ll surely serve no purpose at all once he finds you to be dreadfully incompetent at figuring him out as well.

And then you remember the speared corpses and all intention of stating your educated guesses goes flying out the window as you fully grasp for the first time that day that you are not in the clear yet. 

“I don’t mean to be presumptuous, really,” you protest chickening out of a real answer, especially one as absurd as what your mind is trying to string together as you speak. “I haven’t even known you a day, how can I possibly -”

“You can say what you suspect,” he snaps quickly, showing off a bit more white in his mouth than you have seen yet, for until that moment he’s always kept his lips rather closed, even when speaking. “I believe it will be best for the both of us to clear the air of any pretenses, and I am offering you the courtesy of voicing your suspicions before I make myself fully known.”

Perhaps it's the frankness to his tone, or the candor with which he speaks, or even the way his shoulders seem to turn forward slightly, bristling with something only barely controlled, but feeling the pulse quicken in your chest, you switch tactics. 

“You aren’t human,” you state blatantly, changing the air around you as the words leave your tongue. “Correct?”

A wry smile spreads across his face, and when he next opens his mouth, you are greeted with _fangs_.

“Correct.”

You can’t help but stare at them worryingly, all the half-recalled stories about vampires returning with a sudden and unrelenting veracity to the forefront of your memory.

“Vampire?” You choke out, the word thick and sticking in the back of your throat. But sunlight doesn’t harm him, so surely not, unless the stories had been wrong on that account.

“Not quite, but close enough that I will not keep you in suspense. Dhampir. Half vampire, half human,” he gestures to himself, tiredly.

You’re too busy trying to figure out how that could even happen, if a vampire could carry a child or keep alive a woman they’ve impregnated or _whatever_ to notice the way Alucard stares at you, but had you seen his rather ambiguous expression, your doubts would only increase in multitude.

“Does that fact frighten you?” He asks, tilting his head and betraying nothing.

Your wide eyes continue to stare at the table to the side of him, processing. “Should it?”

“It’s been enough to frighten most others off.”

“Is that why you live alone?”

He darkens. “Not entirely.”

A silence hangs between you then, heavy with things left unsaid, unknown. You wait for him to speak, to explain himself further, to ask you another question - anything. You aren’t sure what he waits for, only that he’s looking at you with an air of equal expectancy. 

Finally, with a great heaving sigh, he leans back in his chair and pushes his blond hair from his face, granting you a view of his strongly defined profile. Through the windows above the kitchen sink, you see a few raindrops start to slice through the air, and you can hear them pattering against the side of the castle a few moments later, though faintly. Had you been at your own cottage, the thatched roof would have soaked up most of the drops, but in such a small space, they’d be much more audible, and your sheep would bleat in their shedded pens. When the rain stopped, a brave few would dart out of their shelter and splash around in the mud puddles, forcing you to give them a bath before you could even think about shearing them. 

“What are you thinking of?” Alucard asks with some wonder in his voice. “You smiled.”

You stiffen, surprised at the observation. You thought he wasn’t even looking at you. 

“My old cottage. I liked it when it rained there.”

“Were you happy? Before the men showed up?”

The rain outside pours in earnest, slapping against the window in pelting sheets. Somewhere, a far off rumble registers more in your chest than it does your ears. 

“I was content, I think,” you decide, absently bringing your uninjured foot to rest on your seat and wrapping your arms around it for some vague sense of comfort. “It was a simple, solitary life.” 

You realize then with a pang that it is likely you are not at all missed, not with the only animals you cared for to be affected by your loss. Even then, a sheep’s memory probably wouldn’t have held onto you for any substantial amount of time once you’d left, and you are certainly long forgotten by everyone else.

“Did you enjoy being alone?”

“I haven’t really had much of a good comparison, have I?” You mutter, chin resting on your knee. “Live in peace with your ten sheep in the country or be trafficked and sold as someone’s bride, dreading the day you’ll be used for your body and nothing more. Enslaved.”

Your eyes are downcast, but you notice Alucard’s gaze turn to you once more. 

“Will you go back? Once you’ve healed?”

You’d thought of your little sheep farm almost constantly in the back of the wagon - after all, it was all you had known before the blindfold went over your eyes, and it was better than thinking of the sure to be horrific future. _That_ alternative was far from an enjoyable thing. 

“Like I said yesterday, I doubt it’s still standing,” you sigh, rubbing your eyes. “I’d have to start from scratch all over again, somehow find the money to live, buy new sheep. It was a secluded farm but I’m sure the villagers have raided it by now, not expecting me to return. My being carried off wasn't exactly a private affair.”

Your confession leaves you with a heavy weight, and you are hit with the knowledge that you have no place to go and no idea of how to get there, how to survive. Throw whatever the hell night creatures really are and _actual vampires_ into the mix and your hope for any kind of a reasonable life goes flying out the window and right into the quickly brewing storm.

You might just as well have died like your kidnappers for all the good your newly granted freedom has done you… 

The other, equally unpleasant thought you’re also torn with wanting to ask about the bodies outside but at the same time not really desiring to know the grisly details. Were they thieves? Brigands? The last people to overstay their welcome? Other half-vampires staking a claim on the castle? How _did_ it fall into Alucard’s control, anyway?

Suddenly the half-vampire aspect of things has shed new light on the situation in which you find yourself, spurring an endless barrage of new questions and concerns you could only hope he answers one day.

“Have you no friends to stay with in the meantime? Relatives?”

His voice isn’t impatient, nor is it mocking. It’s gentle, understanding. Worried, almost.

“No. I have no one,” you reply, echoing his words from the night before on the stairs. You dare to look at him for the first time in awhile, afraid that you have said too much. Afraid that he’ll grow impatient or bored of your company and resent that he must keep you alive in the absence of anyone else to care for you. Or that he’ll use the knowledge to your detriment. 

He smiles tightly. “Then at least we share that.” 

Thunder hits outside, a flash of white light streaking through the windows. The both of you sit there for some time, watching the storm through the kitchen’s two sets of windows, not saying a word, and letting the raindrops speak for you instead.


	6. Fireside Musings

You take the news better than Alucard had expected you to. He had purposefully hidden his fangs to the best of his ability upon your arrival, though why exactly he had chosen to do so he could not rightfully say. Perhaps it was to expedite the process of extracting enough information from you about the potential threat at his doorstep without having to explain himself, at least initially. He wouldn’t even consider the alternative, that he might have done so out of not wanting to frighten you, to prevent giving you cause you to run away from him in fear. 

He’d shown himself to you at last, however. It seemed unavoidable, and he was tired of speaking with his mouth almost constantly closed. He wanted to gauge your reaction in real time, and he had. 

You surprise him, constantly. Not just with how well you accept his more vampiric nature, but in almost every other regard as well. You went past the corpses on his front lawn, opened his magically sealed door out of sheer willpower and desperation and thereby outsmarting the rather intelligent spell, and kept your wits about you when you answered his scathing questions. He had spent the entire night sure that you were some kind of planted assassin, some actress to tempt him into a trap. But he killed the men who would have been your conspirators, and unless you were even more scheming than he had originally thought and had some other plan in the works, you continue to put yourself into situations that leave him in control - bandaging your wounds, supplying your food. He supposes you have no choice, not with a broken ankle and no knowledge of the surrounding terrain if he is to take the story you give him at face value, something he hesitates doing purely from experience. He’d been too trusting before, and has no intent of making that same mistake again. 

So, after dinner, after he’s carried you back up to your room and makes mention of doing something about finding you a new set of clothes to wear, he spends his second night without sleep. Not an uncommon thing in his life, but he remains awake with a purpose, not the near-terror he’d felt the night before while he tried to allay his fears, stop his past trauma from bleeding into the present. 

_You are observant_ , he thinks, sitting in the study and staring into the fire. _And certainly half-mad with desperation to flee three men over twice your size in bulk. It was bravery, in the end, since you managed to survive. It could have just as easily been stupidity_. 

The embers crackle in the hearth. Alucard adds another log, planning to keep the flames flickering all night, finding their ever changing presence soothing to his cycle of thoughts. 

He’s kept the sword with him, though he lets it rest against the wall. He knows you notice when it is around, eyes darting to it now and again whenever it shifts positions. He has no intent of taking it away, even when he is alone. He isn’t defenseless without it, he _knows_ he isn’t. He could rip you apart with nothing but his bare hands if the occasion called for it, but that’s what he had thought the last time he let anyone so close to him, when his mind was too confused and overstimulated to think properly and a lone, visceral instinct was the last resort which saved his own wretched existence. 

_Perhaps your ignorance is what will save you in the end_ , Alucard muses, sipping a glass of white wine. He can’t remember how many he’s had already, all of them blurring together and creating only the faintest buzzing at the base of his skull. You hadn't been filled with hatred when he revealed himself. Mild fear, perhaps, but you did not grow up with the stories of Wallachia whispered over your cradle while you slept, those of monsters and demons lurking in the night, waiting to take pretty young things like yourself back to the depths of hell from whence they came. That much was clear from the way you can still manage to look at him afterwards, for there are precious few who can look upon him with such innocence. With your lack of previous knowledge, lack of warnings and therefore likely common sense, Trevor and Sypha have a better concept of what he is than you ever will be able to, and he’d known them for... less than a week in total. _They were right to leave, right to get away from the insufferable creature he has become before it was too late._ He doubts that they even think of him, still, nearly three months after their departure, after Dracula’s death. 

_But that doesn’t make missing them go away, does it?_

He can hear your heartbeat, echoing faintly throughout the corridors. There are other noises, too, in the castle. A clock ticking somewhere, bats in the far off attic. He could choose to pick up any one sound or let them all fade into each other, into oblivion, but he chooses your heartbeat, singling it out amongst everything else. It is steady, slow with sleep. You will not attack him this night, then. Not out of a baseless fear that he will harm you, or because you want something you cannot leave him alive for. He’ll hear your hobbling footsteps long before you could even get close, of course, but that, in addition to wanting to think about you, to figure you out, is why he remains awake. Watching. Waiting. 

Because, in his mind, your betrayal is, just like everyone else’s has been, inevitable.


	7. Routine

Grayish sunlight hits your eyes, prompting your arm to flop messily over your face to keep a bit of darkness still. Three months of adhering to someone else’s sleep schedule and now you aren’t willing to sacrifice a bit of your rest, not on the damn feather mattress with the sound of raindrops pattering happily on the windows and lulling you into something almost peaceful. 

Still, you have to get up at some point, and after a valiant attempt to just doze right back to sleep, you find that, yes, you are in fact, awake, and might as well get on with things. You don’t welcome the cold chill against your legs once the comforter is removed, but it’s a small price to pay for not having to walk to an outhouse somewhere.

When you leave the bathroom, still wearing nothing but your undergarments, you hear the faintest of footsteps outside your hallway door. They seem to grow gradually dimmer, until you cannot be sure if they were ever there to begin with. 

Your red dress sits once again in a heap on the floor, and loathe to wrestle yourself back into it, you snag a thin blanket from the foot of your bed to wrap around yourself like a cape.

You make your way to the door, every step an effort, and wait, listen. Hearing nothing, you squeeze the levers, learning from yesterday, and slowly tug open the wood with a loud creak that echoes through the darkly lit stone hallway beyond. Nothing seems to greet you, not Alucard, not angry men to take you away again. You feel the blanket slip from your shoulders, and when you reach down to get it, you find a bundle of things sitting at your feet.

_That’s interesting, at least_.

After a final glance around the hallways, you open the door wider and crouch down to pull everything towards you, shutting the door once again after everything has cleared. 

You sit on a heap on the floor, and begin to examine your items. 

There are a few yards of fabric, durable but soft, in a muted mossy green and a grayish blue. A comb. Some scissors. A few needles, thread to match the fabric, and two apples in an extra cloth. Obviously, Alucard hasn’t the heart to carry you downstairs again, or perhaps he’s giving you space after the revelation he’d delivered to you the night before. After all, the rest of the day had been tense and you had eaten dinner separately. Regardless, you are far from complaining over the matter. He’d said he’d look into clothes, and not knowing your measurements, must have thought that making your own would be the most suitable alternative to purchased goods or borrowing whatever he had lying around. After all, you’ve only seen him in the same shirt and pants for as long as you’ve been in the castle and you certainly aren’t going to take those away from him if he has nothing else to spare.

So, after nibbling on a particularly ripe green apple, you get to work, laying out fabric and using the red dress as a base pattern and the apple’s cloth to tie back your still unruly hair. You’ve made your own clothes before, you’ve even made your own woven fabric, on one particularly uneventful spring. You don’t go over the top with the first dress, using simple, easy but flattering cuts that you make sure to try on for size while you go. The shift you’ve been using to sleep in is a white, long sleeved thing, able to be hidden entirely by the red dress or shown under a more revealing cut without breaking the rules of propriety. Seeing as you’d like to have a dress meant mostly for moving about with comfort and ease, you make the green fabric into a sleeveless kirtle and add makeshift lacing with excess fabric wound by spare thread into thin, noodle-like tubes. In a slightly unconventional move, you make the seams on the sides of your bodice, under your arms. It makes for less seams to sew in the long run and is easier to dress yourself with, though you are forced to sew twice as many “buttonholes” as a substitute for metal grommets to keep yourself laced in.

The work is plain, repetitive. The gown itself is simply two pieces of almost identical fabric sewn front to back with some hemming along the raw edges, but the fabric is easy to work with and doesn’t seem to fray. You sit on the window ledge, for lighting, but also for the chance to look out at the view and meditate. You’re used to spending time alone. You enjoy it, in fact. For so long, it had just been you and the sheep on your farm, and no one else for nearly a mile. Not great for when you caught the inevitable winter cold, but your days were at least your own. Lonely, occasionally, but yours nonetheless. And now, sitting here, finally somewhat alone for the first time in months, you have the opportunity to process everything that has happened to you without the threat of a blindfold and gag or a glinting metal sword hovering nearby, waiting for you to make a false move. 

You are in the abandoned castle of a lonely, hard to read, half-vampire.

You aren’t going to be sold at market, a concept which you have spent the last three months of your life trying and failing to come to terms with. 

You are going to be okay.

Right?

Alucard, as well-behaved as he has been thus far, is still a huge, enigmatic mystery. Your ignorance on the subject of his race is your greatest disadvantage when it comes to understanding him, and somehow, you don’t feel that asking him personal questions in rapid succession will go very well, especially after his rather cryptic answers to the ones you’ve posed thus far. 

You prick your finger on the needle in your hand, cursing yourself for being so careless as you watch the little droplet of blood pool to the surface. _Do half vampires - dhampirs - drink blood too?_ You wonder, sucking your finger absently. _Do vampires, even? Really?_ You’d grown up with tales of forest goblins that snatch up misbehaving children, not immortal, beautiful men who covet the necks of the sleeping. You’ve never been particularly religious either, something the local churches in your area had demonized you for. It was possibly a good thing, in some regards, that you had been snatched up when you were. Otherwise, you might have been tried for witchcraft for spending so much time away from the rest of good society. Regardless, it meant that you didn’t hear sermons about god’s abominations every Sunday morning, though mass was so often given in a language you don't understand that you aren’t sure that it would have helped anyway had you put in the effort to attend. 

You take a break from sewing the dress, having been at it for several hours at least. It’s mostly done, enough to be wearable if not yet completely finished, and you know that you’ll need to go back in and reinforce the seams for the garment to last as long as possible later. The blue fabric sits innocently along with its matching thread on the otherwise empty desk, and you let your thoughts turn away from the mysteries of vampires and such and towards what the design of your second dress will be. A chill runs along your skin, and you briefly consider making it a cloak of some kind instead. 

You manage to fit yourself into the green dress, and though you do not have a mirror to inspect yourself with, it seems suitable to your needs. Your red dress and the matching slippers, ruined from your run in the forest, lie in a discarded pile to the side, near where your apple cores are browning. The comb sits on the floor where you’d left it, and you pick it up before returning to the window seat, working through the tangles of your hair while you stare off into the darkening world, rife with the ever-present, cold rain.

You can see the ruins of some other building, across the way and a bit to your left. The right of you is obscured by a castle wall, filled with dark, empty-looking windows. The ruins are grand in their own right, and what’s left of them don’t appear to be too terribly old, almost like an estate house that you would have seen back home near the border of Franca, should you ever have traveled that far. Beyond the ruins, and admittedly, surrounding it, is the great expanse of forest you’d made your way through. The trees do seem inviting, you realize, recalling how you’d seen the beauty in them even while fleeing. If it wasn’t for your ankle, you’d very much like to take a stroll through them, even with the gloomy weather. 

But, then you remember the night creatures and all desire of venturing alone outside vanishes like a wisp of smoke. 

You fall into a repetitive, mindless routine as your nimble fingers brush out the many tangles in your hair, and your trance goes on well past the point at which the knots have been coaxed out. Your arms only stop the repetitive motion when a white blur near the forest edge catches your eye and your breath. 

You pause, squinting out at what you see, mistaking it for a ghost for a moment. It is too big to be a man, but the fur on it is paler than anything you’ve seen, a creature of snow and ice. 

_It’s a wolf_ , you realize once its tail comes into view, large and soft looking, despite the wetness clinging to it. There is no mud on the animal, and it moves with a lightness which makes you think it very well could be some sort of apparition. You consider for a moment that this might be one of the dreaded night creatures, though the behavior of it seems to disprove that. The wolf paws at the ground here and there, moving between places in a slow, amicable fashion, head mostly bowed. 

You aren’t sure what brings the thought to your head, but somehow, the poor thing seems sad. 

...

A knock at your door wakes you with a jolt from where you’ve fallen asleep on your windowsill, emphasizing a new and rather annoying pain in your neck from where your head had hung at an odd angle. You look down at yourself, at the comb in your hands resting on the green of your newly finished dress. 

_At least you have clothes now_. 

Slowly, and with deliberate motions, you pry yourself off the windowledge, body slow and sluggish with sleep and half-remembered dreams. It takes you a while to reach the door, but when you do manage to get it open, Alucard waits on the other side, patiently. 

His golden eyes stand out one again, especially in the dimness of evening, and you are suddenly very sure that they can see in the dark like a cat’s. They flicker over your new clothes, and for a second, you almost see something like approval in them. 

“The material is suitable, then?” he asks in a way that comes across as more of a statement than a question. His voice seems tired, weak. His hair, while still fine and as pristine as silk, is a little more rumpled than it had been yesterday, and while you cannot tell without touching it, seems to be ever so slightly damp. 

You cannot wait to take a bath of your own, but that will have to wait until your bandages come off. 

You brush the skirt of your kirtle absently, the pleated fabric starting on your hips sticking out far enough to give you some shape. It reaches the floor, and hides the fact that you are barefoot against the flagstones. 

“Quite suitable, yes.”

The both of you stand there in a silence you can, at least, attribute to having just woken up. Alucard’s silence is yet another mystery to you.

“Have you come to help me down to the kitchen?” you ask, trying to break the tension. “Change my bandages, and whatnot?”

He blinks back into focus, as if you’ve just reminded him the reason he showed up. “Yes. I can also offer your dinner, should you wish it.”

As if on cue, your stomach decides to growl, protesting its previous two apples. You might have laughed if Alucard’s face didn’t look so serious all the time. 

“I’d appreciate that,” you admit, making to step forward, shutting the door behind you. Your arm goes around his shoulders, and his find their way under your form, lifting you into the air effortlessly. You catch the scent of pine on his hair as he steadies you, the scent of rain.

He takes a few of those gliding, near silent steps forward, and it dawns on you that he must intend for you to hear his footsteps when you do. There seems to be no issue with him moving utterly without sound when he so wishes.  
You add it to the list of abilities he possesses, wondering if you’ll ever be able to figure out them all. 

He brings you to the kitchen, setting you down at the table once more while he retrieves the usual things to tend to your wrists. You take the time to look around, briefly, and find two cobbled together dolls sitting on a shelf that you’d missed earlier. They seem so out of place in the solitary castle that you can’t help but wonder what their purpose is. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever thanked you,” you say once Alucard begins to undo the wrappings at your wrist. 

His fingers pause, briefly, before continuing their work, barely touching your skin. “For showing you basic human decency?” he scoffs, though you can tell your words have some effect on him. 

“Healing my injuries, giving me clothes, a nice bed… it's more than I’ve been given in the last three months,” you explain, evenly. “It might seem trivial to you, but honestly, thank you.”

Alucard stills again, goes silent. For a few, tense moments, you’re afraid you’ve said the wrong thing, but when he resumes placing salve on your already much improved skin, his motions seem a little more fluid, a little less stiff, though his speech seems jilted, still.

“Then, you are welcome.” 

You refrain from speaking until your hands are out of his and he gets up to discard the old bandages. 

“How long until you think I’m back to normal?”

“Your injuries, you mean?”

You nod, surprised that he needs a clarification. 

He leans against the kitchen counter, palms pressing against the edge as he shifts his neck from side to side, considering. “Your wrists are healing quite quickly, I’d say another five days until we can stop constant treatment. Your ankle will take far longer, even with the best remedies I can offer.”

He sounds distinctly less than thrilled at having you stay the duration of that process, but you can’t bring yourself to ask if he means to turn you out at some point. Some questions, it would seem, are better left unasked. 

Your mind starts to reel at the notion that you’ll potentially continue to exist in the castle for a matter of weeks, perhaps months. Things are already so awkward, so tense. If the days continue to pass in such a manner, you can’t help but worry about the sanity you both only tentatively seem to posses, each of you tiptoeing around the other, afraid to ask questions. 

Someone has to do something to remedy that, and seeing as you are in the position of lesser power, you aren’t sure that it’s up to you. 

But hey, who said that will stop you from trying?

“Will you…” you begin, trying to phrase things correctly. “Will you stay for dinner? With me? If you eat, that is. Even if you don’t, it... might be nice to have company.”

His brows furrow, head tilts. “I eat,” he confesses slowly. “You truly want me to stay?”

“If you wouldn’t mind, of course. I mean, you’re already being kind enough to feed me, you might as well stay and have dinner yourself.”

You can’t tell what he thinks as he studies your face, eyes flickering like twin candles from across the room. His lips remain pressed together, hiding fangs or just indecisiveness, you cannot say for sure. You do get the slightest sense that he wants to accept your invitation, but something is holding him back, something unplaceable. You don’t know nearly enough about him to make any guesses as to what that hangup could be, but if he does join you for dinner, perhaps you can poke around and see if there’s anything to be learned from him, anything you can use to figure things out. At the very least, you can ask about Wallachia, about what horrors you will face should you suddenly find yourself abandoned on the doorstep. After all, you can never be too prepared. 

After several long moments, his eyes close, head bows. Hair falls around his slim face, concealing his expression from view. “Alright.”

Inwardly, you breathe a sigh of relief. Perhaps things can go well, after all. 

…

Dinner chatter takes awhile to pick up. For the first few minutes after Alucard gingerly places a concoction of potatoes, salad, and cut fish in front of you, no one says anything, the only sound in the air that of the rain outside and the occasional clatter of silverware. 

“You cook really well, Alucard,” you say after finishing your plate. You can’t help but feel that the compliment falls a little flat, especially when you have no basis for comparison aside from the simple fare you’d eaten in your home village and the awful porridge you’d been given while on the road, but you mean it. Somehow, he made the simple fish actually quite flavorful, and the potatoes crunched through an outer layer to have something softer inside. He obviously cares about the little details in the cooking, and you cannot help but be honestly impressed. 

Again, he seems taken aback, as he always does when you speak kindly, sincerely. “It's only fish,” he protests, genuinely confused.

“I know, but you made it taste good.”

He gives you a smile which is more of a grimace and takes a generous sip of white wine before muttering “thank you” somewhat sheepishly. 

You watch the flames in the hearth then, needing a distraction from the present disaster of a conversation. Alucard obviously doesn’t like compliments, he occasionally answers questions… would asking for some sort of story be a good way to get him to talk? Or perhaps questions which aren’t so personal…

“What are night creatures?” you ask out of the blue, still looking at the fire. 

Alucard, mid sip, nearly chokes on his wine. “Night creatures?” A pause. Then, “Have you not encountered them yourself?”

You shake your head, sensing that this is something he has intimate knowledge of. “I haven’t. The men feared running into them on the road, but we never did.”

“And you want to know about them now? They can’t get into the castle, if that’s what you’re wondering. I have wards set up against them - strong ones.”

“Didn’t I manage to get through those same wards?”

Alucard stares at you again, lips pressed together hiding something unsaid. “Night creatures,” he begins in a calm, trained voice, “are made when a human forgemaster takes a soul from Hell and implants it into the body of something recently killed on this plane of existence. The resulting abomination is a vile, unholy thing that swears loyalty to its master alone.”

_That_ , you admit, is worse than what you were anticipating. “Why would anyone do that?”

“Oh, there are lots of reasons. Soldiers for war, or to exact some kind of personal vengeance. There’s only been so many of them roaming about in recent months because of-”

He cuts himself off, wearing an expression which implies that he’s already said too much. 

The last thing you can afford to do is push him on that subject - on any subject which he doesn’t want to speak of. You leave it be, for now, and move on, trying your best to stomach your unease. 

“What about vampires? How do they come about?”

This doesn’t seem to relieve his sudden anxiety. He remains very still for a moment, considering. Once more, he reminds you of a living statue. “All you need to know is that they come about _now_ when a human is turned by one who already exists. The original vampires go back farther than anyone can feasibly remember.”

“Does being turned hurt?”

“I imagine so.”

“So then you were born the way you are, as a… dhampir?”

“Yes.”

Your gaze slips to the wine glass sitting in front of him, and when you speak next, your voice is very small indeed. “Do you drink blood?”

You can’t meet his face. You don’t want to know if this whole ‘wine and dine’ thing you find yourself doing is really just an elaborate ploy to get himself a decently healthy snack. He could have drunk the two corpses outside dry for all that remains of them. You want to live, _obviously_ , especially with your newfound freedom.

But more than that, a tiny part of you wants his kindness to be genuine, to believe that not all persons are bad or out to hurt you. You want there to be good left in this world outside of the innocence of farm animals, however fleeting it may be. 

Alucard doesn’t speak until you finally meet his eyes, and the intensity behind their quiet exterior startles you.

“I can,” he says, enunciating each syllable, cushioning his words in velvet and showing the peaks of his stiletto fangs. “But I don’t. I haven’t ever. I am not filled with the same primal needs and desires as a full vampire. You are safe in that regard, if the matter has been of concern to you.”

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, earning you a raised eyebrow.

“I wasn’t… expecting you to, exactly,” you clarify, messing with your hair. “I mean, I didn’t get that instinct about you, if I can even call it that. I just… I don’t know anything. About vampires, or dhampirs, night creatures, or Wallachia. I’ve never needed to. I’m not asking for all the secret knowledge in the world, though I’m sure that this castle has some fantastic hidden libraries and all, but...” 

You’re rambling. God, you’re rambling. Alucard waits patiently, man of few words as he is. You hope you’re making sense. You squint your eyes shut. 

“What exactly is it that are you afraid of?” His question catches you completely off guard. “Is it me? My... kind?”

You shake your head, rub your closed eyes. Stall. “I’m not… _afraid_ of you, exactly. You haven’t shown me a reason to fear you - you’ve been nothing but kind to me.”

Some primal part of you does, of course, but he doesn’t need to know that. 

“You did see the corpses outside, correct?”

A shiver rips through you at the mention, body betraying you. “At this point I figure they deserved whatever befell them. I hope they did.”

He doesn’t respond, you don’t open your eyes. 

You push onwards, suddenly unable to stop the barrage of feeling bursting forth.

“I guess what I’m afraid of is finding myself in the woods one day when all of this is over and not being able to defend myself because I don’t know _anything_ ,” you confess, the truth hitting you like a sack of bricks. “I mean, I couldn’t even keep myself out of normal, human-human problems. And now I have only a vague idea of what I’m up against, and no idea how to defend myself, plus I have an injury…”

_Rambling, rambling_.

Something touches the hand of yours resting on the table, feather light, warm. You glance to find Alucard’s slender fingers sitting there, purposefully still. Comforting.

By the look on his face, it is a great effort for him. 

“You’re afraid I’ll banish you out into the world without the ability to fend for yourself,” he says, as if seeing the greater picture.

His touch freezes you to the spot. “S-something like that,” you manage. 

He looks at the two of you joined for a long, silent moment, and then when he forces you to meet his gaze, something has shifted in those otherworldly, intense eyes. Something clears. 

“I will not turn you out into the Wallachian wilderness,” he promises. “Not without giving you a fighting chance. Not until you’re ready. Failing to do so would be akin to leading a sheep to slaughter, and despite whatever rumors you may have heard about my kind, I do possess a moral conscience. If you stay here and respect my own wishes as you have done so far, I am willing to come to some sort of mutual arrangement - a transfer of knowledge.”

Your own eyes, wide and focused on his, on how they flicker, cannot look away. “Arrangement? What exactly do you want from me?”

_What is the price to pay for that knowledge? Can you afford it?_

He laughs at that, a light thing, a puff of air through his nose. “Simple.” He leans forward, almost imperceptibly. “Whatever knowledge I grant to you, I must only insist that you do not attempt to kill me with it.”


	8. Trust

After dinner, Alucard spirits you off to a new room - the first floor study. It isn’t the larger, more damaged library that would hold more pertinent information, but somehow, he has the feeling that seeing all those books would be overwhelming for you, at least to begin with. For the same reason, he won’t be showing you the Belmont hold any time soon either. 

You gasp inaudibly when the door opens of its own accord, remnants of castle magic responding to his presence. He can feel it, the air entering your chest as he cradles you in his arms. 

Alucard doesn’t like touch. No, he’s… conflicted about it. If you possessed the ability and the roles were reversed, he’s quite certain that he would never allow _you_ to carry _him_ , to place all his trust in you. 

Why you seem to be able to do just that in his own grasp is beyond him, though he can’t help but wonder if it’s out of naïveté and not trust, and if you’ll cease to allow him to carry you once you read about the nature of his kind.

He makes a note to look for something suitable to act as a pair of crutches in the event that particular instance should arise.

Alucard sets you down near an ornately carved desk that sits in the middle of the tall room. Everything is covered in a fine layer of dust, just like all the other forgotten palace rooms. The hearth before you, flanked on either side by those characteristically tall, diamond-paned windows, doesn’t even have the remnants of ash. No one has stepped foot in this particular study for quite some time.

He pulls out the chair for you, aware of your every move, of how you take in the library with a look of wonder.

It occurs to him that he should have asked whether or not you possess the ability to read, considering your rather humble beginnings. 

Well, he’ll cross that bridge, should it arrive, later.

“You likely won’t run into many vampires,” he begins, jumping with that preternatural grace to one of the bookshelves, skimming the titles at an impossibly fast pace. “And no matter your level of preparation, your chances of survival will depend solely on the opposing party’s generosity on the given day.”

He can feel you watching his hands as they pull one leather tome after another. He’s looking for things in your native tongue - his father knew a great many languages, and it subsequently renders a great deal of the library unusable to you. He finds things pertaining to lesser pests, bog creatures, impish cave trolls. Fantastical yet common things that you are likely to have heard of or encountered before. He finds an incomplete guide to alchemy and how it pertains to forgemasters, some books on botany and edible plants, and then just regular forest pests - bears, the occasional angry moose. 

Satisfied with giving you the most basic of things to look at, he sets the moderately tall stack on the desk in front of you. 

“To start with,” he explains, planning to grab some logs for the kitchen’s hearth and transfer them into the study for light and warmth. 

You state your thanks, something that Alucard is convinced he will _never_ get used to, and then you grab the first book on the top of the pile, opening its cover with a sort of steeled determination. He hadn’t expected you to have so much energy so late into the day, but from what he could tell when he went to fetch you for dinner, you had taken a bit of a nap. God knows he can get by without sleep, and even though you are human, he has the sinking suspicion that it's an ability you share with him yourself. 

When he returns with the logs, you are too busy reading about poisonous fungus to pay him any attention. Alucarad tries to push the intrusive, sudden idea that you might try and take him out via inedible mushroom someday from his mind, lighting the fire and coaxing the flames into a relaxing lull. There’s an armchair by the hearth that faces where you sit at the desk on an angle, and snagging the nearest book to him, he takes a seat, doing his best to look casual. No matter how adept he is at adjusting to going without sleep for days on end, even he has to admit that his attention is wearing thin. The book’s words seem to blur together, not that he ever had any intention of reading them in the first place, and the binding seems heavy in his hands, reluctant to stay open. 

To his abject horror, he finds himself nodding off a few times, eyes fluttering shut.   
Until he hears the faintest gasp escape your lips and jolts himself immediately awake. 

“What is it?” he asks, wincing at the sleepy hoarseness of his own voice. 

Your eyes are still stuck on the pages in front of you, but by now, you’ve switched into a different book. _How much time had passed while he dozed?_

Not getting a response, Alucard stands and walks to your desk. The book on night creatures is spread wide open, chronicling in vivid, painstaking detail the anatomical transformation of a human corpse into a truly demonic beast. 

“Do they… do they really look like that?” Your face has gone quite pale, as lacking in saturation as the shift you wear beneath your dress. Both your hands and your voice tremble, and for a long moment, all Alucard can do is stare at you, completely oblivious to how close he’s gotten, how near to you.

“Some of them,” he admits, trying not to startle you. “They all look different depending on who made them and for what purpose. Experienced forgemasters can make things of greater variety-”

For your own good, he cuts himself off. He can hear your heart beating wildly, your increased, shallow breathing. You’re doing a valiant job at holding yourself together on the outside, but he knows how you really feel. Unlike the Belmonts of the world, you haven’t been conditioned into stilling the beating of your racing heart lest you give yourself away. You’ve never had to. 

It's then that your innocence truly dawns on Alucard. You’ve certainly seen your share of hardships, that much is clear. You know what it feels like to be bound against your will, used for someone else’s gain, an indescribable pain he himself feels all too strongly even still, but there is more to the world than just mankind’s evil, far, far more. And if just seeing a drawing of a night creature elicited such a reaction from you…

Suddenly, Alucard really doesn’t feel like he needs to keep his sword hovering nearby at all hours of the day, especially not when he can keep an eye on you himself. He’ll sleep with the blade in reach, of course, if he manages to sleep at all, but somewhere in the great labyrinth of a wall he’s constructed in his mind to keep everyone else out, a few stones fall loose, letting some light in. 

You really are very, very different.


	9. Worry

You don't sleep that night. 

Alucard carries you up the stairs once again, but you insist on taking a few books with you. He makes no protests, and seems altogether rather distant, but then again, so do you. 

He drops you off, you close the door. You run to the desk, spreading out the books. _Forgemaster’s Alchemy, Domestic Demonic Pests, A Chronicle of Poisons_. You wonder who wrote them, if they were human or vampiric authors, if it matters, if either of them know more than the other. 

You know there are more books. Better books. There has to be, in a place this size, more than just one tiny library. But you also know that Alucard needs to trust you first before he’ll show you any of it, and the best way you can manage that is by taking care of what you’re given and hoping that he’ll allow you to see more in time.

You start with _Domestic Demonic Pests_ , and go from there, reading about all sorts of things you most certainly didn’t actually think existed until that very moment. Everything seems too real, all of a sudden, as if you weren’t just taken from one country to another, but rather from the actual world into some horrible, corrupted nightmare. You had been afraid of falling from one danger to another, and while Alucard seems to be able to suppress whatever dhampiric urges he may or may not feel towards you, you can’t say the same for any other beast you might encounter.

You switch books, an endless shifting unease settling deeply into your stomach.

_Night Hordes: bands of night creatures who join together and raid -_

You can’t look away from the pages, some desperate compulsion urging you on. You might not stand a chance against them anyway, but you have to know what’s out there, get some vague inclination of what to do. 

In the desk drawer, you find parchment and ink that has miraculously managed to stay wet even with apparent disuse. Your shaking hand trembles down words that seem important, a messy scrawl that continues for the rest of the night, a desperate hope to allay your fears somehow, the feeling of _if you could just know enough_ , maybe the terror will abate from wrenching through your head just as viscerally as all the creatures diagrammed on the pages.

You carry on this way for so long that when the knock on your door eventually comes, you haven’t even realized it is early morning.

Suffice to say, you nearly jump out of your own skin.

“Breakfast already?” You whisper to yourself, scooting the chair back. You wish you had a mirror, suddenly very in need of seeing just how sleep deprived you look. If feelings alone are anything to go off of, you aren’t doing very well on either account.  
When you finally bring yourself to open the door, you find Alucard doesn’t seem to be faring any better than you are. If his hair had been rumpled the night before, today it is plainly unruly, falling about his shoulders in a wild, disorderly manner as if he’d lain on it for hours and neglected to ever fix it. 

“You didn’t sleep,” he states harshly, not even scanning your body to know the truth. He can see it in your eyes, you’re sure. 

You make to rub at them, unnerved by both the lack of rest and Alucard’s intense, nearly angry glare, not to mention that you see creatures burned into your eyelids whenever you shut them. 

“I was busy,” you say, a poor excuse for the frenzied, half-mad scribblings that left your hands covered in ink and aching more than they already were. “And how can you tell, anyways? Is that a dhampir thing, sensing sleep deprivation in humans?”

You shouldn’t snap at him. You know this. And yet...

“It is when their scratching quills and pounding hearts keep me awake all night as well.”

You freeze, breath catching in your throat.

“You can hear my heartbeat? Where were you, sitting outside my door all night? Like some sort of creeping-“

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he scoffs, looking away hastily. “I can hear things you couldn’t possibly imagine. Even if I’m on the other side of the castle, far from where you are.”

“You can’t just tune me out?”

“ _No._ ”

You stare at him, your already limited patience and poise shredding into nothingness as time ticks on. 

“My heartbeat hasn’t bothered you before, I hope,” you drawl, crossing your arms and dripping with sarcasm. 

“You’ve always been asleep before,” he mutters. 

You’re struck with your own exhaustion mirrored on his face, his body. His normally upright, elegant posture is slouched, one arm propped up against the doorway to hold himself up. As much as his listening to your heartbeat in what you thought had been a private moment seems invasive and wrong, somehow you feel that he genuinely couldn’t have helped it. He seems just as tired as you are as a result of it anyhow, and perhaps that is truly the source of his morning bitterness. 

“I couldn’t stop,” you offer, clearing your throat. “I’m sorry if I actually kept you awake all night, but I couldn’t stop.”

His head tilts to look back at your desk, at the mess of papers strewn about. You don’t know if he can read it, what with your messy handwriting and that distance, but there are a great many things you can't presume to know about dhampir abilities, now more than ever.

“You’re still frightened,” he says after a moment, softening. 

“It’s more that I’m… worried,” you clarify, picking at a loose thread on your dress. “Not terrified, not yet, but… I can’t stop thinking about them, those things. And how much I have to learn in such a short time, how useless I’ll be against them even then. How I’m probably going to be dead the second I leave this castle no matter what I do.”

Alucard is quiet for a long while, eyes fixed on a spot on the floor, focusing on something you can’t see. Your own words hang heavily in the air like some dark cloud tring to blot out the sun. 

“If I…” he pauses, thinking better of himself.

“Yes?”

“Your ankle will take five weeks to heal to the point where you can walk on it without my aid,” he recalls, slowly. “In those five weeks, I can promise that no harm shall come to you so long as you remain in the castle. No night creatures, no monsters. Unless of course, you count me among those latter ranks.”

His eyes flicker up to meet yours then, as if he’s unsure as to whether or not you catch the joke. Perhaps he himself isn’t sure if it was a joke.

“And after those five weeks?”

Your voice is so thin, so timid. Even to your own ears. Alucard hesitates for a moment, his answer seeming to take great effort to produce.

“I can... teach you what you need to know in the meantime. What places to avoid, what things to look out for. In all likeliness I can ensure you get to a safe village. As I promised last night, I will give you this knowledge, and more than what’s just in those books, but on a damned schedule.” He ends his conditions with a slight growl. “Part of this deal was that you don’t kill me with the information I give you, and that includes death-by-exhaustion.”

You’d laugh if he didn’t look so dreadfully serious about it all. “Can _you_ really die from exhaustion?”

He snorts, tossing his head back and pulling at his hair with long, elegant fingers. “I’ve come closer to finding out than I would have ever liked.” 

You tug at your sleeves, feeling badly. “Sorry.”

“You aren’t entirely to blame. Try as I might, I cannot fault you for being afraid, though I might ask that you refrain from bringing up any more books before bed, for both our sakes.”

You wince, feeling guiltier by the second.

“Can you… take a nap? To make up for the lost sleep?”

Alucard shakes his head, but doesn’t clarify further.

“Can I at least help with breakfast, then?” You offer, leaning against the opposite side of the doorframe yourself, already tired of standing on one foot. It would serve as both an apology and as something easy and repetitive to do in order to distract yourself from your spinning thoughts. 

Alucard looks taken aback for a moment, but agrees, carrying you down to the kitchen with just a hint of sluggishness marring his otherwise smooth, graceful gait.

You make a sort of loaded porridge together, something that requires minimal energy on both your parts. Alucard gets the water to boil and goes about gathering some oats while you sit on a chair brought up to the counter and slice up fruits - strawberries and apples. You add blueberries into the mix too, but they don't need to be cut. The fact that Alucard has given you a knife, however small and relatively blunt, while his own floating weapon is nowhere to be found does not slip even your tired notice, and you file it away in your mind just as he comes over to hold the large pot for you to dump your labors in. 

It's a quiet morning, and neither of you speak while waiting for the porridge to boil, Alucard occasionally stirring it with a long wooden spoon. The silence isn’t tense, though, and gradually, you see him relax a bit, leaning against the wooden table with his palms pressing down beside him, eyes shut. It’s almost as if he’s listening to the birds chirping away outside, audible to you clearly through the cracked window that also lets in the occasional late autumn breeze.

You’d been captured after the first month of summer had passed, after you’d shorn your sheep and made decent progress in your weaving and thread spinning. It dawns on you that, in five weeks, it could very well be a snowy winter landscape that you leave in, especially in Wallachia. 

You try not to think about it. 

“Do you have plans for the blue fabric I gave you?” Alucard asks, startling you with his sudden speech but also with the sheer mundanity of the question. Small talk.

“I hadn’t really thought about it,” you reply. “Maybe something with sleeves since it’s getting colder.”

“Is it?” He looks out the windows, genuine surprise on his fine features. “I… hadn’t noticed.”

The rest of the morning is spent sitting in the study, each of you flipping through distinctly non-nightcreature-y books. You had been fidgeting at the desk after having already sat the whole night in the one upstairs, and so Alucard left briefly and returned with a very comfortable chaise lounge which he set down for you by the fireplace. He alternates between standing by the bookshelves and sitting at your vacated desk, seemingly taking inventory of the library’s stock. You can’t imagine that he doesn’t have more important things to do around the castle, though what those duties are you cannot possibly begin to speculate upon. Surely, he is only staying with you to babysit.

Right?


	10. Learning Curve

Alucard… is having a hard time understanding you. 

It’s been over a week since you arrived bloody and desperate on his doorstep, begging to be let in, to be spared. Strong and brave and impossibly naive. He has the vaguest inclination that his mother must have been a similar sight to his father when she too had arrived out of the blue, when the world was a bit simpler, still. 

You haven’t tried to kill him. _Yet_ , which is more than he can say for having spent less time with his last guests. Even in the darkness and from his position in the woods, he can see their bodies swaying gently in the breeze, white nightgowns fluttering like ghosts. _How long has it been, really, since they died_? He can keep track of the days you spent at the castle because of how much attention he puts into the nights. They aren’t quite so monotonous, not when he knows he has a set amount of hours in which to teach you things before the both of you call it a night and retire for the evening. 

You’ve been sleeping, thankfully, after that one all-nighter, which means that occasionally he is able to do so as well, though his nights are still filled with restless dreams and painful memories. Alucard has found you lulled into a nap on the chaise he’d brought in on more than one occasion, always surprised that you feel so secure in his presence. _Do you truly not fear his fangs piercing your skin? Did you actually trust him when he’d said he wouldn’t harm you?_

He breaks off a large tree branch selected for its straightness and goes in search of another. He’s found nothing suitable for you to use as crutches within the house, even amongst his mother’s old medical things. She hadn’t kept much around the castle, wisely preferring to use her home in Lupu as her medical base of operations so as not to terrify the locals.

He tries not to dwell on her further as he goes in search of another branch, but it is difficult. She was perhaps the one good thing in his past that hasn’t been tainted in the present, hadn’t let anger corrupt her like his father had, though the thought of her demise is just as painful, perhaps more. They are both gone though, and so are the only other people he’d once called friends. Trevor had stolen Sypha away with his brusque nature and foul mouth and… well, Alucard isn’t really sure _what_ Sypha had seen in Trevor; he only knows what she’d rejected about himself - his coldness. Or, what it had been at the time.

Alucard wonders if Sypha would even recognize the thing he’s become in their absence, the lonely, unhinged-

He sighs, ripping the second branch down with more force than necessary and tearing himself away from thoughts of Sypha, of how much she’d reminded him of his mother, with her thirst for knowledge and her unwavering determination. 

_But you remind him of her as well_. Not in every way, and not often, but he catches glimpses of his mother in you. You have her patience, for one. She’d put up with Dracula in much the same way that Alucard feels that you tolerate him, though your motives must be rather different. Yours almost certainly don’t stem from something akin to love. After the way Alucard treats you, with his _coldness_ and brash, unfeeling practicality, he’d be suspicious if it _was_ your motivation. No, you want to be liberated from your cages, both of the physical and of the mental, the fears of leaving the safety of the castle walls for what lurks beyond. You’d proved to be a good learner, though. Attentive, focused. You listen to him speak, answer the questions he poses. You hardly ever interrupt him, and you don’t press him for more than he gives, you don’t try to bleed him dry of knowledge the way Taka and Sumi, _the devils_ , had. Incessantly. 

He drags the felled branches through the woods, breaking the treeline and reaching the yard. Your room is above the servant’s hall, his desired entrance, and he sees the flickering candlelight within. Your silhouette appears behind the diamond panes, staring out into the night and combing your hair. Alucard watches you for a moment, struck by the simple, mundanity of the action, how normal it seems, how domestic. 

You must have been sitting, for a moment later your form rises in height and moves away from view, taking the candlelight with it, presumably to go to sleep. He’ll know for sure when he walks into the castle, as the charms and wards prevent him from hearing your heartbeat from the outside. 

Carving the branches into crutches is not difficult work. His strength and skill in nearly everything he attempts pays off in this endeavor as well, and he brings the work outside once more as the dawn begins to rise, as he finishes up the details, his sharp knife paring away at the soft wood as if it were no more than a potato, as if he hadn’t done the exact same thing nearly a month ago, when his arms ached and bled and he couldn’t seem to sharpen the pikes fast enough. He wasn’t sure if the motivating, restless thing that drove him then was hatred or the fear that he’d lose his resolve if he took too long. 

This is different. This is careful, thought out. The curved crutches are nearly identical in shape and form, made to fit your height as he remembers it. The only difference between the two comes from the natural inconsistencies of the wood, imperfections which were granted to mortal things. Not to him. Not by birth. 

Perhaps it is a silly thing, to mourn perfection, symmetry. To wish that there was something more endearing about himself, something less cold, less… unapproachable. He had wished for it as Trevor and Sypha left, as he watched her elbow him in the ribs a bit down the pathway for making some snide comment that Alucard has long since forgotten. How he knew he’d never have tolerated the gesture himself with the same easy laugh and half-hearted shove in return. He would have stiffened, perhaps laughed nervously. _Maybe_.

But he would have needed to leave with them in the first place to have even had a chance. And coldness seems to be a virtue, especially now, when anyone can apparently come waltzing in and try to steal into his affections the way that the two devils had. No, they weren’t devils, a fact that Alucard has trouble reminding himself. They were people. Humans, mortals. Graced with imperfection and he had faulted them for it. Killed them for their lack of judgement. Become the very thing they had feared him to be, and they certainly had left their scars on him, physically and mentally. 

_It is silly to mourn perfection_ , Alucard scoffs, watching the sun’s slow ascent over the treeline. 

Especially when he himself has strayed so far from it. 

…

He’s never seen a smile like the one you give him when you spot the crutches leaning against the chaise in the study, waiting for you. He has always had a hard time reading human expressions, but that particular smile, the one that starts as a demure thing at the corners of your lips and ends in a tentative, flickering grin as your fingers brush over the work he’d done not four hours prior, stumps him like nothing else. 

“Did you… make these?” you ask, inspecting each mark where his knife had carved a neat divet, softened by careful sanding. 

He shoves his hands in his pockets, feeling oddly restless. “Yes.”

“Does this mean I can’t expect you to carry me around from room to room from now on? Has my increased appetite made me too much of a weight to bear?”

“What? You aren’t too-”

You turn, and your words make more sense when he sees the mirth in your eyes, the teasing.

_A joke. You are making a joke._

He has no idea what’s gotten you into such good spirits, but a slight flush colors his cheeks. “Oh.”

You _have_ filled out, slightly. Not so much with weight, but almost with life. You can’t really weigh more than you had upon your arrival, not by much, but you do seem to take up more space somehow. There’s more color to your cheeks, more light in your eyes despite the dismal topics you consume with a voracious hunger. Alucard simply hasn’t noticed until now. 

“I’ll still help you up and down the stairs,” he clarifies, clearing this throat. “And across any other comparable distances should the need suddenly arise. I just thought that you could be trusted to find your own way from here to the kitchen and back by now.”

 _Freedom_ , he is giving you a bit of freedom. He’s grown tired of sitting in the same room all day, waiting around for you to go to sleep when he isn’t lecturing you on the fastest way to decapitate a striga or spot a particularly skilled doppler. Plus, your wrists have healed to the point where the bandages have come off, though to him, you still smell like honey, ever so faintly, the scent clinging to you like mist on the moors. You have every reason to start moving around on your own. Who is he to stop you?

From the look on your face, you understand the gift. The test. He’ll leave you alone, see if you truly can be trusted.  
“Where will you be, then?” You ask quietly, as if unsure of getting an answer. “When I’m doing my own thinking?”

“Around,” he answers lightly. “Fixing up the place, mostly. Different spots each day. If you need me for something just call and I’ll find you.”

He’s asking you to not come looking for him, he knows. The castle might not be safe, for starters, but also… he needs to be sure that he can escape, still. Some backwards, primal part of him still clings to that shred of privacy as desperately as he had once wanted to rid himself of it. He’s a different person now, and you are a different guest. He is willing to open up, _slightly_ , slowly. But he needs time. Space to think. 

Space away from the calming pumps of your beating heart, from being lulled into a trance by the sunlit afternoons and post lunch drowsiness. 

He’ll never admit that he’s grown to find that sound almost comforting. A constant presence, at least. 

“Well, thank you. I hope your fixing the castle goes well.”

He’d be damned if his heart doesn’t pick up a bit, just then. 

For the first time since the betrayal, his lips tug into the barest hint of an actual smile.


	11. Calm

“Can we go outside?” you ask, interrupting Alucard from his spiel on mandrakes which has gone on for entirely too long.

“Am I boring you?” A hint of amusement flickers in his words. 

“Noooo…”

He shuts the book held delicately between his fingers. 

“It’s just such a nice day, and it will be too cold soon.”

His eyes go behind you, scanning the world outside, something unreadable on his face. “I assume you mean for me to accompany you?”

You wiggle your eyebrows. “Well, how else am I to defend myself against danger?”

“Hopefully with the instructions I’ve given you, unless you haven’t been paying attention at all and your true skill lies wholly in deception,” he says, starting warmly but then ending somewhere cooler, darker. 

“You haven’t even given me a weapon, Alucard,” you remind him softly. “Not that I’d really know what to do with one, but still. It doesn’t have to be forever, I just… I’ve forgotten what the sun feels like. What it _really_ feels like, on the other side of the glass.”

Surely he has to understand, the way the sunlight clings to him as if he were made of the stuff himself. After a moment, he sets the book down with a sigh. 

“I expect you’ll need some shoes, then? I’m afraid I don’t have any spares lying around.”

You’ve become so accustomed to going around the place barefoot that you’d forgotten entirely about your lack of footwear. Your red slippers had disappeared long ago with your red dress, both of them useless to you now anyway. 

“I can just go barefoot,” you shrug, kicking your legs before you from where you sit on the chaise. “It hasn't rained in awhile and I’m only using one of them anyway. I’ll just take a bath when I’m done.”

You have been wanting to try the bath, the large copper tub that is filled up by what Alucard has gently explained as a thermal pipe system as opposed to the magic you had originally attributed it to. Lots of things are turning out to not be _magic_ , but rather the dreaded _science_ that’s been hushed up everywhere you went, replaced with religion as an answer to almost everything. 

He stares at you for a moment, perhaps thinking you to be a somewhat wild thing, before shrugging. “The air has a chill to it. I’ll fetch you a cloak.”

Not ten minutes later, Alucard has you walking beside him to the servants’ quarters exit. Well, “walking” is a bit of an overstatement, but you manage to get around much better on the crutches than you had without them. He holds the cloak in his hands the same way he holds you - softly, and doesn’t deign to put it around your shoulders until you stand before the open door squinting into the sunlight. It does not slip your notice that he also remembers to tuck your hair neatly out of the way once the cloak has been fastened, though you are too distracted by the world outside to so much as murmur a thanks.

There’s no drop to where the ground meets the castle, and so lunging the crutches forward, you take your first step into the world, your first free, calm step outside in months. 

For a moment, a long moment, you just stand there, your eyes closed. Feeling the wind gently tugging you forward, beckoning you to play. Hearing the birdsong - so clearly now that there is no barrier between you. The air is fresh, clean, unfiltered by old rags acting as bindings, as dampers on the world. You forget about the threats, about the night creatures, just for a moment. Just long enough to enjoy yourself, enjoy the world for what it is. 

You take another step, then another, eyes opening and seeing the splendor before you, the world cloaked in a golden afternoon haze. Somewhere beyond, a doe grazes by the forest, her slender, sinuous body twisting gently down, curved and elegant. When you turn to look back to Alucard, to ask him if he sees the beautiful creature, you find him still standing in the doorway, watching you with an expression you cannot read. 

“Aren’t you coming?” You ask, trying to sound light, carefree. As if you aren’t just trying to draw him out into the sunlight to see how it frames him, caresses him. 

A tiny, trepidatious flicker of his lips, and he steps forward, the servants’ door shutting behind him. It takes a few steps for him to clear the castle’s shadow, but when he does…

The world around you pales in comparison, or rather, it shifts to make him the focal point of its grand composition. The sun hits him from behind, his hair lighting up into a luminescent stream, into liquid gold, falling about his broad, muscled shoulders like a cool fog. His eyes glow like embers behind illuminated lashes, his skin shining like the glimmers on a summer lake. Each step he takes is slow, languid, honeyed. Graceful as the doe by the woods, who you suspect is just as entranced as you. Even the birds quiet a little, though it is not out of fear but of reverence. He is breathtaking, utterly. Truly stunning, though just as clearly as you can see the fangs behind his parting lips, you can plainly tell that he is something otherworldly, some sort of creature made differently to the doe or the birds or even to you yourself, now standing an arms length away and utterly transfixed.

If you have ever suspected Alucard to have some sort of seductive powers, if vampires and dhampirs possess some sort of preternatural prowess in captivating their prey with their looks long enough to stun them into submission, you don’t even pretend to care. He never speaks of himself or his kind in the lessons he gives you, but just to see him like this, physically glowing… being seduced is a risk you are more than willing to make, for him. For this sight.

“What are you thinking?” He breathes, voice barely more than a gentle whisper, caution laced within its quiet tones.

Despite yourself, despite the crutches, you step forward, letting your eyes take in the man before you, the splendor of him, a feast for your soul starved of goodness, of light...

“I’m thinking that you are very beautiful,” you admit, not even possessing enough sense to feel ashamed.

You actually manage to shift his features into a look of shock, the most expressive you’ve yet seen him. Quiet rage, stony calm. Ghosted smiles. And now surprise, genuine unfiltered surprise. 

You wonder if someday you can make him grin.

He says nothing as your hand reaches forward, as your fingers brush the tips of his long hair, finding it to be oh so soft, gossamer strands of silk floating on a breeze. 

“What does it feel like?” You ask, watching his eyes dart between your eyes and your hand, shuddering in the closeness of you. “The sunlight? Does it hurt?”

Alucard shakes his head slowly, holding your gaze. His hair tumbles forward, floating over those shoulders, curving around the contours of him. 

“It feels… safe.” His voice is still quiet, though hundreds of things are left unsaid in his eyes, in the tension between the both of you. 

You let his hair fall from your grasp, let it fall down to join the rest of the strands. You don’t know why, but it makes you feel sad to let it go, as if you’re dropping a lifeline, something important. 

The world seems to sigh back into focus, the birds returning their song, the doe to her grazing. The autumn chill hits you for the first time, going in through your nostrils like a bucket of cold water dousing desire. You shiver, pulling the cloak tighter. You feel Alucard’s stare lingering on the scars marring your wrist, the pink flesh marking both your captivity and your freedom, your survival.

“What are _you_ thinking?” you ask, craning your head to gaze up at him, not realizing how much taller he is as close as the two of you are. 

He takes a long, contemplative moment. You worry that he won’t say anything at all, that somehow the spell has broken and the allure ended, that your forwardness has indeed crushed any thoughts of kindness from his mind, of sharing.

“I’m thinking,” he whispers after a long while, taking your hand in his and running his fingers over the scars with such careful tenderness. “... you must be a very brave human indeed.”

 _That isn’t what he had wanted to say_ , you realize, reading the bite in his voice for what it truly is. Not a lie, but a diversion, a cover. 

Your brow wrinkles. “ _Brave?_ ” You muse, feeling the shape of it in your mouth and finding that it doesn’t fit. “I don’t know about that… reckless, desperate. Terrified…” you add quietly, a glance to the woods conveying your meaning, your fear of the beyond.

His hand moves from your wrist to your chin, tilting it back to meet his eyes, the almost painful splendor of them swallowing you whole. “You ran from your captors, bound and weakened and alone. You escaped, you found me, trusted _me_ , of all creatures, to help you. Even now, you don’t balk at the sight of me, at what I am.” His eyes shine, emotion glittering in their depths. “Brave. And strong.”

 _He means it_ , you realize. Cover or no cover for what he was going to say and any potentially supernatural powers of persuasion set aside, Alucard’s words sound genuine, even if you aren’t quite ready to believe them yourself. 

A great, fluffy cloud floats in front of the sun, taking away the full force of Alucard’s splendor and perhaps saving you from saying more things that are far too forward, far too emotionally charged. You had called him _beautiful_ right to his perfectly chiseled face, your tongue running faster than your brain. You had meant it, of course, but… it was such an odd thing to say, to confess. You’ve known him barely more than a week, you have no idea of his intentions. 

He clears his throat, and you look back up, painfully aware of the blush on your cheeks. He is less to gawk at without the sun halo, but beautiful nonetheless.

“Did you perhaps wish to travel further than these five or six paces from the doorway or is this enough of a reminder of sunlight for you?”

There is nothing - nothing in those eyes that betray how he feels, no trace of the exchange you had just said only a few moments ago. Sealed up, emotions encased like a tomb. 

Suddenly you feel very cold indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... for everyone who wanted a bit more fluff :)


	12. History

Afternoon walks become yet another part of your increasingly solidifying routine. You spend each day waking up at your leisure, usually somewhere between eight and ten in the morning. Alucard, apparently alerted to your consciousness by the change in your heartbeat, knocks on your door thirty minutes after you wake to spirit you down to a waiting breakfast, usually something light like porridge or apples or a loaf of bread with butter. Where Alucard gets the ingredients for such things you don’t even begin to fathom, but you take it with thanks every morning without fail. You then move on to lessons, and Alucard starts to show you different studies in the house, slowly. Sometimes you ask to read in a place where he’s doing the cleaning up, his limber form bending down to haul heavy rocks and ceiling beams providing a welcome distraction from the horrors on the page, though he asks enough sporadic questions about what you’re learning to get you to pay attention most of the time. You always insist on helping him make an easy lunch, happy to be delegated small tasks like chopping vegetables or watching the stove. You get the impression that Alucard doesn’t need you, per se, but he never shoos you away, never snaps at you for wanting to help, to do _something_. 

After lunch, he takes you outside, the pair of you walking around the perimeter of the castle and slowly venturing closer to the woods. He promises to take you to a nearby stream once you don’t rely on the crutches as much, to which you point out that he can just pick you up and go sooner should he want to. He doesn’t take you up on the repeated offer, but you think he smiles a little more each time. Maybe. 

You don’t help with dinner. After the walks, Alucard asks where you’d like to be while he fetches it, and you get the sense that preparing the meal is somewhat meditative for him. The dishes become more elaborate as the days pass, going from soup and the occasional helping of fish to you hobbling in to find a fully, expertly roasted turkey staring back at you covered in garnishes that lasts for the rest of the week. The time between the walks and dinner and then after you’ve eaten is typically yours to do with as you please, and you spend a lot of it making yourself that blue, long sleeved dress. You pay more attention to it than you had to your original green kirtle, as functional as it is. You make the new one more form fitting, more shapely. You tell yourself it is because you have ample time and do not want to waste the pretty fabric, pushing down the nagging notion that you want to appear as something worth looking at to Alucard far from the forefront of your brain. You’re sure it's silly, to foster your one sided affection towards a being that likely sees you as no more appealing than a particularly nosy dormouse, even sillier to hope that he could maybe feel even a fraction of the stirring your stomach gets when you see him enter the room, surrounded by sunbeams. He’d probably seen hundreds of other dhampirs, or vampires, dressed in court fashion and their own ethereal grace over his hundreds of years of existence - 

It dawns on you so ferociously that you have no idea how old Alucard actually is in that moment that you don’t even notice your needle stab halfway through your finger until the flash of red catches your vision and you jerk it to your mouth before the blood can drip onto the dress. There you are, hardly a few decades old, mortal, and pining secretly over some half vampire whom you know nothing about in an abandoned castle run by what you’ve been told your whole life are demonic forces - science _and_ magic. 

How on earth have you not realized this all sooner?

The doors to the study you’ve holed yourself up in as a part time sewing station swing open, startling you further in your sudden epiphany. You can feel your heart racing, you can probably hear it just as loudly as Alucard claims to. His face has a look of concern when you finally meet it, your own only just regaining color. 

“Are you alright?” he asks, not moving from the doorway. 

“You… just startled me, is all. I wasn’t expecting you.”

His head cocks, his eyes assessing. “Dinner is ready,” he eventually says, lowly. 

You nod, but make no move to rise. Alucard stares at you for a long moment before slowly walking away, giving you space. You hear his footsteps echoing in the halls, wincing when you realize that he’s making himself audible for _your_ sake, and you shove aside the sewing, reach for your crutches, and make the walk to the kitchen yourself, the journey feeling nearly twice as long as usual. 

When you get to the dining table, set nicely with a candle, you take your usual place to the right of the head, eating without tasting the food, without noticing what it even is. Alucard sits opposite you, back to the wall, and you can’t help but wonder if he’s done so deliberately all these times to try and make it seem as if you are equals, as if he couldn’t kill you with one thought the way he’d doubtlessly killed the two humans _impaled_ on your - on _his_ doorstep.

The sound of clinking silverware draws your attention, and you realize that Alucard has put down his own set, and is pointedly trying to get you to look at him. “What is wrong?” he grits, each word clearly an effort. 

_He’s getting angry_ , you fear, every sense suddenly heightened. _What does he do when he’s angry?_

“How old are you?” you blurt, equal parts horrified and relieved at having finally found your voice. 

He merely gawks at you, clearly not having expected _that_ question. “Why?” he asks cautiously, reaching for his white wine to feign some sense of normalcy. 

“You live in this giant castle all alone, and you clearly own it, know it. Are familiar with it… I can only guess that you’ve outlived your staff and whatever courtiers you might have kept, and I can’t help but wonder if-”

“If I _killed_ them?”

He _snarls_. 

You shrink. But you don’t deny it, even if his actions towards you thus far have proved the idea somewhat unlikely.

He sits back in his chair, swirling the wine in his hand and glaring at it as if it were the only thing in the room. He looks darker somehow, a shadow falling over the planes of his face.

“I have told you what you need to know,” he spits after a moment. “That you are safe in this castle, that you have no reason to fear me.”

“Is that what you told the two corpses outside?”

The words are out before you can stop them.

You’re hit by a spray of something, jumping nearly out of your chair with an undignified squeak and shutting your eyes tight until it’s over. You find Alucard’s clawed hand holds the remnants of his glass, a few drops of his own blood mixing with the wine now streaming down his forearm. He’s gone quite pale staring intently at a spot on the table, but you don’t notice. All you can do is stare at the blood, watch it drip.

“I’m going for a walk,” you announce, kicking your chair back, grabbing your crutches, and not waiting to hear what he has to say about it. 

The door is open; it gives no resistance as you barrel through it, as you feel the freezing wind tugging at your hair and your green dress not meant for the cold. 

You tell yourself that it’s liberating, like a stream in the summer, and brace yourself, walking onwards. The air is dark, the sky clouded. You have no intention of fleeing the castle tonight, not without supplies or both of your ankles functioning properly. You’re _startled_ , not _stupid_ , after all. You make for the back of the castle, crutches digging into the grass as you propel yourself forward at a pace you might have found impressive were your mind not otherwise occupied. The castle looms to your right, dark and imposing against the stormy sky. A sad place, undeniably so. Alucard fits with it in that respect, that solemnity always present at the back of his mind, at the edge of his words coming through his unsmiling mouth.

You stop, about halfway round. There are no lights, no friendly faces at the window. Even the studies’ candles have gone out, as if you’d never been there, an insignificant pinprick on the map of something vast, ancient. Something far more important than a stolen shepherdess could ever dream of being. 

Something about that thought drains you, the ground calling to your knees as the harsh wind coaxes tears from your eyes. Perhaps it isn’t so much the fact that Alucard never told you his history as it is that you know, deep down, that you can never hope to match it. Letting yourself foster a bit of attraction towards him has been a much needed distraction from the endless lectures on creatures and horrors beyond the palace walls, but it was a poor decision on your part, to let it come this far. Even if he somehow feels anything for you, any shred of affection he is perhaps even incapable of experiencing, it will be a fleeting thing, ruined by old age and your own mortal fragility. Why bother falling for a _human_ , why settle for anything other than something as beautiful as himself when he looks the way he does, all glowing and graceful and - 

The only warning you have that something is behind you is a sudden snapping of a twig. You don’t even have time to turn and face whatever it is before a dark, guttural cry howls through the night, sending hot, putrid breath barreling into your face.

_What a delicious morsel you could be_ , something says to you, using the vibrations in your trembling bones as a means with which to communicate. 

Slowly, oh so slowly, you turn around in the grass, eyes catching on mangled, backwards claws and twisted limbs, up, up, up.

And then you see the fangs in its mouth, large as your forearm. 

A night creature, a big, hulking thing. 

You have nothing, no weapons. _Crutches_. You have two blunt sticks of wood that will do _nothing_. 

So, you scream. Loud and shrill and piercing and pray to some forgotten savior that Alucard will hear, that he will get over your little spat and come to your rescue once again. What else _can_ you do?

The thing makes its own distorted mockery of a laugh, the sound of death on the wind. The moon peeks behind the clouds to illuminate its body in a way directly opposite of what the sun does to Alucard. The light doesn’t bounce around its form, doesn’t even reflect off it. Instead, it just sinks into that blueish, leathery skin as if it is the pit of all evil, of darkness incarnate. 

You’ll never forget the look of that skin, the smell of the breath or the sound of its horrid, wicked voice as it lowers itself before you like a dog about to pounce onto a rabbit: sloppily and with great amusement. 

If only you, the rabbit, could run.

You shuffle back a few feet, debating whether or not to scream again, to send another blind signal of desperate hope into the unfeeling darkness, calling out for just one ray of light.

You have seconds, precious moments left to live. 

You look up, past the tall, looming head of the night creature, into the swirling clouds above you. Between their depths, you can just barely make out the pinpricks of stars, the spaces between them. 

_Perhaps_ , you think, a final, delirious thought, _you’ll soon find your place in that sky, in that darkness. If you’re lucky_.

You sense the mouth opening more than you can see it, tainting your last few breaths with that rotting stench. 

_This is it_ , you think, something that had crossed your mind before, in the back of that carriage, in your village square when you felt those rough hands around your waist. _This is how I die_.

Only this time, you really mean it. 

The creature lunges, prepares to devour its easy meal -

And for the second time that night, something sprays out at you. 

_Acid_ , you think, feeling a sickly hotness coating every surface of you. _To dissolve prey, that’s a trait that some night creatures have, right?_ Surely, that had to be it. You’ll be gone in a few seconds, and yet…

You open your eyes. You see the grass beside you, the moon shining on the dew. Your hands before you covered in a dark, syrupy liquid, steaming in the coldness. You smell metal - you _taste_ metal.

Blood. The creature’s blood. 

In your _mouth_. 

You gag, trying to vomit, trying to spit it out into the grass, your shaking arms useless as you try and prop yourself up, to get away.

You can’t move. 

There’s some sound you don’t hear, some voice. All you can do is turn and stare at the dulled, yellow eyes gleaming at you, the teeth fallen in an open snarl around your legs as if the creature intended to swallow both you and the earth beneath you perfectly whole.

There’s a line above that snarling, mouth, that head. Silver, glinting. 

A sword. 

And behind it-

Alucard yanks his weapon from the beast, using the momentum to tumble back towards you in a smooth, graceful arc. 

He says something, but you cannot make it out over the ringing in your ears, the pounding of your heart. It’s as if you’re underwater, you’re drowning- 

He says your name. He says it with such urgency and tenderness that you look at him, spotless and glittering like a ghost on the breeze. 

You hadn’t even thought you’d given it to him. The one time it had left your lips was when you cried out in pain while he set your ankle. 

_He remembered_.

He repeats it, clearer this time, the anger from earlier gone, but the sense of purpose remains. “We have to go,” he ushers, making to pick you up. 

You couldn’t have resisted him if you tried. 

One moment you’re standing, and the next you’re flying, hurtling through the air with a blur of red so bright that you cover your eyes with your bloody hands before remembering what coats them. 

Alucard sets you by the servants’ door. “I need to see if there are others,” he explains, eyes trained on the forest. “Do not move until I come back to fetch you.”

He waits for you to make some sort of affirmation, a sound of agreement. You can barely manage a nod, and again he’s off, blurring by in a rush of wind and a red, lingering trail. 

Those next few moments of fear are perhaps the worst you’ve ever encountered. The men who had kidnapped you had told you what was to happen from the start - that you were to be bartered and sold, left physically unharmed until the transaction was completed. All throughout the wagon ride, you’d felt dread creeping in, eating away at you like a hunger. It had seemed distant, though. A far off threat that you could deal with later, when it arrived. When _you_ arrived. 

As you stare out into the speckled darkness, eyes too terrified to turn away from the forest, voice held in a perpetual almost scream should something else grab at you, hiss at you, you realize that _this_ is true terror, this feeling of helplessness in the face of an imminent danger, the culmination of all your fears as you realize that they are justified. You’d spent the last three weeks trying to tell yourself that you could survive a night creature, that you could run from it. But you are _useless_. Mortal. Weak.

You might as well be dead already. 

…

You are alarmingly quiet when Alucard returns, barely seeing him in front of the mysterious treeline you’re so fixated on instead. 

He stoops down before you, looking tired, yet pristine. “It was alone,” he breathes, crouching on the stoop. “It must have been a scout. For whom, I cannot say.”

You halfheartedly debate fighting him on that, asking if he _means_ ‘cannot’ or if he’s merely refusing to give you that information. You find you don’t care, not anymore. Not about anything. Numbness has replaced where the terror once was, although you can't stop shaking, not as the night wind brushes against the slick blood coating you, reeking of metal and death and somehow, magic of some kind. Alchemy. You don’t know how you can pick up on that particular scent, but you do. 

It feels wrong. 

Alucard frowns at your lack of response. He gently places his clean hand against your cheek, checking for a temperature or perhaps just your attention. 

_Not a threat_ , your mind seems to say, still scanning the trees. _Not your enemy. Keep looking_.

“It’s gone,” he whispers, slowly shutting the door to your immediate distress. He stops you from looking, scooping you up into his strong arms and walking with deliberate steps all the way to the entrance hall, the stairs beyond. “You’re safe in the castle,” he repeats, eyes focused ahead. You listen to each of his footsteps, desperate for something to do, something to count. To distract yourself. 

_One, two, three, four…_

You reach your room, the door opening of its own accord. For the first time, you’re afraid Alucard will just drop you on the floor, leaving you to figure out your own terror and misery alone. 

You cling to him, a silent plea to stay, to help. Your frightened eyes dart to his, and you can almost see him soften, see the understanding. 

He takes a slow, measured step over the threshold, and you let loose the tiniest sigh of relief.   
“I’ll not leave you,” he says soothingly a moment later, as if he knows the pain of crying alone, of dealing with trauma without help, without guidance. As if he knows how much you need someone to cling to, even if he is several hundred years old and a murderer, and -

He stands you up, leaning you against the bathroom sink. You hadn’t even realized that he’d taken you to the bathing chamber, busy as you are with your spiraling mind. 

He turns the copper tap on, steaming water filling the tub in what seems to take no longer than a few seconds. You think of the creature’s carcass steaming in the moonlight, the stench of its blood so very like copper-

You want to vomit again, and the toilet is so near.

You fall to your knees for the second time that night, desperate to get the taste out, the feeling out.

You heave, and the dinner you don’t remember eating follows, trailed shortly after by a cool hand on the back of your neck, gathering up your clumps of matted hair, saving it from becoming even filthier. 

The sound of the sink running joins with the sounds of the tub, and once you’ve emptied yourself into the bowl, strong hands guide you up to where you latch onto it’s porcelain ledge. 

“Rinse,” Alucard prompts, flushing the toilet as you comply, leaning closer to the faucet. The first few mouthfuls you spit out, still tasting sickness on your tongue, but eventually, the cool water flushes you out, clears your palate. 

He carries you the short distance to the tub, the combination of your healing ankle and the jelly-like substance to which your legs seem to have morphed making walking on your own accord entirely impossible. He props you up against the rim, steady, sure fingers working on the lacings of your green overdress, sending it to the floor. Your shift follows, and while you are positive that Alucard’s eyes are focused on the wall in front of you so as to preserve your own modesty, you find that you don’t have it in you to care if he really does see you laid bare before him. It might have bothered you, once, or some distant past self, but much like the fear, your shame has dissipated, nothing but static in its wake.

You half slide, half slip into the tub, sending water everywhere as you fumble to sit upright. 

“I could have lowered you in,” he chastises, though there is no sharpness to his words, just an observation. 

He turns off the tap, the water level sitting near your shoulders. Already, the tub has become murky with the blood coming from your skin in sticky streaks, seeping from your hair as if it were made of tea leaves. 

You’re aware of him picking up your soiled clothes, saying something about washing them before heading out, promising to return. He could have been gone for mere minutes, or it could have easily been an hour. To you, the time makes no difference. When he returns, there’s a lacy nightshirt that he sets aside, presumably for you. Seeing that you haven’t moved, he sighs, rolls up the sleeves to his no longer pristine white shirt - something which is _your_ fault, and kicks a stool from the corner of the room to the back of the tub, sitting behind you and cupping water from the bath to run over your hair. He tilts your face up so that you stare blindly at the ceiling, keeping the water from running into your eyes. At some point, his hands start lathering with soap, massaging your scalp and rubbing at your temples. 

You don’t even feel it. 

“I was born in 1456,” he says, soft voice blending in with the trickle of water around you. “You asked me how old I am. I trust you can do the math.”

He’s trying to get you to think, to react. To crawl out of whatever state shock has put you in. Calculating the numbers in your head is like dragging a horse cart through knee-high mud, but you manage, eventually. 

“You’re only... twenty,” you croak, voice hoarse from all it has been through. 

His hands don’t falter, but you hear a sigh escape his lips. Regret? Or, perhaps, relief?

“Yes. So, as you can probably conclude, I haven’t known many courtiers or servants in my time. This castle has been practically empty for as long as I’ve known it.”

He produces a washcloth from somewhere, and wets it with fresh water from the tap before working out the grime on your face with gentle, circular motions. You can’t see his expression from behind closed eyes, and that’s probably for the better. Amidst the waves of nothingness you feel, tinges of mortification for your outburst earlier trickle through, though they are slight.

“... _Practically_ empty?”

The washcloth goes away, replaced by a dry towel that you nuzzle your face into as if it can hide you from your assumptions. 

“I lived here with my parents when I was a child,” he begins, sounding more tired with each syllable. He leans you against the back of the tub, pulling your wet hair out and detangling it with both his fingers and the comb he must have taken from your desk. “My human mother taught me her vast medical knowledge, and my vampire father taught me about magic and runes, how to run the castle.”

“They raised you together?”

A slight smile creeps into his voice. “Oh yes, they were very much in love, contrary to the way that most other dhampires are sadly brought into this world. I knew much kindness when I was young.”

Then where had his coldness come from? His practiced skill with a sword, the hesitant, closed off way in which he’d kept himself guarded from you, from the world? 

Thankfully, you don’t have to ask him to continue. 

“My father also raised me as a soldier in order to defend myself against both the humans and vampires alike who would despise me for what I am. I was to command a legion of vampiric warriors, someday. And I was expected to hold some sort of respect. He sent me away, went on a walking trip around Europe, studying humans, attempting to see the good in them my mother tried so hard to convince him existed.”

You snort, murmur something about an uphill battle on that front. Alucard neither agrees or disagrees, and simply continues brushing out the tangles in your hair with a painstaking carefulness. 

His hands do still though, for a moment, and you get the sense that whatever he’s about to say, is very difficult for him. “When my father returned, he found my mother’s village house charred, gone. The church burned her at the stake on suspicion of witchcraft for practicing the science my father had given to her with the knowledge in this castle.”

You can’t help but gasp, inhaling a bit of the steam of the bath and choking, despite yourself. There are no words you can possibly think of to say to express the horror of such a statement.   
Alucard merely waits for you to catch your breath, a cool hand on your shoulder to guide you back when you are ready. 

“My father gave the people of Wallachia one year to make peace with what they’d done, swearing to enact vengeance when the time ran out. I returned from my training, tried to stop him - to have him just go after the one damn priest responsible for the act. I … failed. The first time. I managed to succeed the next time we met, but by then he’d already started his reign of terror. None of it was exactly private, which is why I suspect someone has sent a spy after me, to see what remains in this castle without my father to guard it.”

Your mind starts to reel back to the night creature, to the feel of it’s blood, it’s taste - 

Two hands beneath your shoulders pull you out of both your spiraling thoughts and the bath, exposing you to air which feels much too cold. Your feet hit solid ground, and you lean back against the tub for support. One towel finds its way around your torso for modesty’s sake, and Alucard dries your hair using a second, carefully squeezing out the tips of it until it stops dripping. Not blood, but water. Somehow, though, you very much doubt that you will be forgetting the feeling of blood drenched over you any time soon, no matter how clean you are. 

“So it’s really just been you alone in the castle?” You ask, incredulous and shivering. Alucard won’t meet your eyes.

“Yes.”

“For how long?”

“My mother died a little over a year ago. My father… two months, I think. Closer to three, now.”

_So recent_. Has he even had time to process it all? You’d had all of three months in captivity, something that seems both like an eternity and a blip in your existence at the same time. But to lose both parents, in such a short amount of time, and in such a horrid way…

_Alucard killed his father, his mother was taken from him, from them both._

No wonder he’s always so morose, so jaded. You’re honestly surprised he ever let you into the castle in the first place, into the shrine of what he’d lost. 

You realize he’s just standing, there, and you can’t tell if he wants you to continue speaking or not. You aren’t even sure what to say, what to do. 

He shakes his head, stepping forward to grab the nightshirt. “Here,” he says, handing it to you and turning to stare at the wall.

You get the message, dropping your towel and shimmying into the light, white fabric, wincing as it falls down to only your mid thigh despite the fact that Alucard has already just seen all of you. Perhaps you’re finally coming out of your shock a bit, if modesty is something you’re worrying about again. 

When you’ve finished, Alucard slowly turns around. He pales a bit at the sight of you, his face twisting into a grimace as he’s forced to look away. You inspect yourself for wounds, something you’d missed - anything to explain the sudden hatred in his eyes. 

“What’s wrong?” you choke, voice shaking once again.

That seems to snap his attention.

“Nothing,” he lies, looking up at the ceiling, sounding strained. “It’s just… another memory - another story. One that I am too weary to share tonight”

You let the subject go, exhausted yourself but also already shocked by what Alucard had told you of his past, of his _recent_ past. In most human circles, he should still be in mourning. Perhaps he is, in his own way.

You let him take you to the bedroom, feeling unexpected comfort in the closeness of him. He sets you down on the bed, makes to leave. 

“Don’t go,” you beg, reaching a hand out.

You see his back as he freezes, tense. 

You pause, trying to think over everything bouncing around in your head. “I… I don’t want to be alone. Please?”

Your voice is a whimper in the darkness, a pitiful whimper in the night. You know Alucard is tired, you are yourself. He probably wants nothing more than to slip into his own bed and fall into a deep slumber, but he sighs. Grabs the desk chair and pulls it to your bedside. He stares at your still extended hand for a long moment before he grasps it, running his fingers along your scars once again. 

“Thank you,” you whisper, meaning it for many things. For healing you, saving you. Confiding in you, cleaning you up. You hope he will tell you more, someday, soon. Perhaps you can help him share the burden of those memories, and that somewhat pleasant thought stays with you as you drift off to sleep if only to serve as a distraction from your own fear. 

The silhouette of him watching over you the last thing you know.

…

You see the creature in your dreams, that night. Impossibly large, and frightening, and you are powerless to stop it as its jaw wraps around your legs, swallows you whole, all the while shrieking its mockery of a laugh as your own screams are lost in the darkness utterly engulfing you. 

You wake up in half-conscious sobs, curled up and facing the wall, shaking violently. 

There is a barely noticeable tilt in the bed behind you, a warm breath flickering across your neck. 

“You are safe,” someone whispers, holding you close, playing with your still damp hair. “You can rest. You are safe.”

The next morning, when your watery eyes squint open, the bed beside you is empty.


	13. Dealing with the Aftermath

It’s around noon when Alucard gives up waiting to hear you moving around in your room. 

_You are probably still terrified_ , he thinks, grabbing your cleaned clothes from where they hang outside to dry in the sun and making the slow journey up to your room. The crutches which, he’d found laying near the carcass of the slain creature, are clean as well, though they sit innocently near the kitchen sink along with his long sword which is there once more for safety reasons, a countermeasure against any other potential attackers. He’d almost been too late to save you, to find you in time. He will not be making that mistake again, not when his killing the night creature will send just as clear a message as if the thing _had_ returned back to its master and spoke to him itself. It is a target, a “come find me.”

For the first time, he regrets that the castle can no longer move.

He hadn’t been letting himself think about the aftermath, the repercussions of his fight at the castle, not fully. Dracula, while deranged, was by far the strongest and most ancient vampire. He kept the world, and especially Wallachia, in order. His absence leaves a stark gap in the power balance of things, one that the remaining vampiric lords will no doubt be vying for control of. 

Alucard has been a fool not to realize that sooner, a fool strung up in his own selfish grief. Trevor and Sypha, if they have any knowledge of this uprising wherever they may be, are no doubt fighting it. Actively helping to rid the world of evil without just sitting on their asses in a derelict mansion, moping about all day and hoping for some pitiful morsel of pure, faithful _affection_ -

He sighs, finding himself at the top of the stairs and about to enter your hallway. He hadn’t slept last night, staying with you until your nightmares abated, listening for any threats from outside over the sounds of your breathing, of your heart. He’s known the torment of silent, solitary agony far too closely to ever subject you to suffering your trauma in silence, alone. Though there is a fine line between being a comforting presence and one which is stifling, and Alucard has no idea where those boundaries fall. He’s never had to do this, to cheer someone up. Sypha, he’s sure, would slap him over the head and call him cold and childish and useless…

And when he opens the door to your room after a few timid knocks, he thinks that maybe, she’d be right. 

You lie on your back, staring up at the ceiling with wide, tired eyes and a slight pallor to your face. The only thing distinguishing you from a corpse of yourself is your breathing, and even that is slow and shallow. You blink, once, as if an acknowledgement of his presence, but do nothing else. 

“I’ve washed your clothes out,” Alucard says for a lack of anything else, clearing his suddenly very dry throat and draping the garments unobtrusively at the foot of your bed. 

You don’t even look at him. He watches you, however, closely. Your eyes are red rimmed, though if it’s from lack of sleep or from crying he cannot rightfully tell. With a sigh, Alucard sits in the chair that has not moved since he vacated it last night, trying to think of the right thing to say. Your hand rests on the sheets, palm up, limp. After a moment, he takes it in his own, once again tracing the scars on your wrist. It seems to be easier than holding you still, he realizes. There’s something more casual in motion, repetitive, easy. Physical. It’s not inherently intimate, either, not forceful. _Never_ , he will never be forceful. Not with you, not with anyone else. He doesn’t think he’d be able to stomach it. 

You make a small sound, after a few minutes, after enough time has passed for Alucard’s focus to have drifted elsewhere, all the while holding onto you, keeping that connection. 

“I’m sorry,” you whimper.

You’re crying. 

You’re turning your head, staring at him through streaks of silver looking so lost and so guilty that for a moment, it's as if he’s looking in a mirror. 

His hand holds yours a little tighter, his voice so, so soft when he finally uses it. “Whatever for?”

A sob hits your chest, your eyes squint shut. “I’m so _useless_ ,” you blurt. “You’ve been teaching me all this knowledge, all these weeks, and I thought… I thought I could actually _do_ something about those horrible things. But I just saw it and froze, I couldn't _think_... I couldn’t do anything.”

You take a few great, gasping breaths as if you are trying very hard to get a point across and are afraid of failing miserably. Alucard doesn’t interrupt.

“And then I was _rude_ to you yesterday at dinner, asking personal questions and making a mess of things, so I’m sorry for that. And you’re still just trying to get over all the horrible things you’ve been through, and I show up out of nowhere and just force myself in, and that’s not fair, and I must be so annoying and -”

Like a rotten dam, the full force of your tears breaks through, choking your words until nothing comes out but a babbling, incoherent jumble of sadness which sends a pang through Alucard’s heart, an already tentative thing. For a long moment, he isn’t sure what to do, if he should try and assuage your fears or just let you cry out your feelings. He isn’t sure that he would have wanted either of those things when he himself was inconsolable.

Well, there was one thing he could have used, back then. And it had worked well enough last night.

He rises from the chair, kicks off his boots. The covers only come up to about your waist, and so Alucard has no difficulty in tenderly wrapping his arms around your shuddering, sobbing torso. He will stop if you offer any sort of resistance, if his nearness repulses you. He has no true knowledge of how you’ve been handled, in the past, if physical affection was something used against you. He certainly isn’t sure where he stands on it from day to day, after what had happened the last - and only - time anyone offered it to _him,_ but holding you to his chest, close enough that his nose brushes the top of your head, his lips near your hairline, feeling the way you melt into him… it seems right, perhaps because he knows that neither of you have any intention of taking things further than that, further than a consoling tangle of limbs arranged in the most proper of fashions, nothing lewd or uncouth anywhere to be found. 

“You’re not a burden,” he murmurs, stroking the skin on your back in slow, smooth lines. “Or a liability.” _Or a threat_.

“Then… what _am_ I? And please don’t say ‘brave’ again, we both know that’s a lie.” 

A slight laugh on his end, air through his nose to hide the skip of his heart. 

“I’d never lie to you. You’re… a friend,” he manages, the word catching a little on the way out as his mind catches up to the painful familiarity of his first sentence. “ _My_ friend.”

You wriggle out of his grasp enough to blink at him through your tears. “R-really?”

He nods, the action slow and deliberate. Your eyes lower, and for the briefest moment, he could swear they land on his lips. He reminds himself that you’re merely looking for his fangs. They continue down, however, and Alucard realizes that you can probably see the scars on his chest as they peek through his spare shirt, one with a lower neckline than what he’d been wearing before. He tries not to think of them, permanent reminders of bad memories, of what happened the last time he’d been too trusting, the last time he’d let people into his bed, his heart…

You start tracing them, the same way he did to you. He’s aware that he’s become stiff, still. His heartbeat, slow to begin with, speeds up, slightly, the one bit of motion like a bird nestled into the crook of an unfeeling statue.

“Do you… have many friends?” you ask as your fingers brush against the evidence to the contrary. 

“No,” he answers too quickly, too softly. “You are perhaps only the third. Though, you’ve also stuck around the longest, so take that how you will.”

You continue to trace him, the sobs of only a few moments ago now hiccups. “Tell me about them, the others.”

Not seeing any other option, any way to deny your request, he does. He tells you how he was found, awoken from restorative sleep deep in the catacombs beneath Gresit by a speaker-magician and a roughly hewn hunter fulfilling an ancient, half forgotten prophecy. How he deemed them worthy to help take down his father, something he’d failed at alone, how they all bickered and bonded over hidden knowledge, over an impossible task. How they’d won, against all odds, and then finally, _finally_ , Alucard tells you how they left him to pick up the pieces of himself shattered amongst the ruins of his childhood home alone.

On a fresh breath, he glosses over the others, the bodies outside, feeling you tense, assuring you that _they_ were not his friends, in the end. 

“... _Did_ you kill them?”

His stomach twists, the feeling of them resurfacing, your closeness reminding him of their bodies against his…

“Yes,” he breathes, not daring to look at you. “It was quick, and… it was a last resort. I thought…”

He sighs, the sound more like a moan than he would care to admit. He brings his hand down over yours, shoving away the fabric of his shirt to more fully show the scars from the manacles, the cursed - well, the blessed things, technically. “They tricked me, found me… vulnerable. Restrained me. I tell myself that it was self defense, that there was no other way…”

He waits for you to kick him out of the bed, to start screaming, crying. Calling him a monster. His eyes are shut in sad, terrible anticipation. You’d only recently started looking at him like he wasn’t something to be feared. He’d seen a pang of that again in your eyes last night, when he startled you in the study, when you first suspected him to be the thing that he is, contrasted so glaringly to when you had looked at him that other day, when you went outside for the first time, with such tenderness, such _kindness_ …

He can’t bear to see that look washed away by your horror, your repulsion. He truly can’t, not so soon, not when he’d barely elicited a genuine smile from you.

He’ll face rejection with his eyes closed, then. Like a coward.

“They were going to kill you first?” Your voice is small, assessing. 

“Yes.”

“You tried to stop them?”

“ _Yes_.” A whimper. Why, _why_ are you dragging out your judgement? Is it not better to get it over with, to confront the pain of rejection sooner, even if it is from within his very arms when happiness is so close within his grasp, and yet…

You move, to his astonishment, _closer_. “Then it isn’t your fault.”

“What?” Alucard didn’t think he’d be the one to wrench away from your touch, but the surprise shaking his stilled limbs to life has no method of control. 

“I mean, I have no idea what possessed you to display them on _stakes_ at your doorstep,” you admit, sounding tired, “but if it really was a last resort, self-defense thing… It isn’t your fault. Just like me getting kidnapped wasn’t my fault - neither of us _asked_ for it.”

Alucard winces back a retort, refrains from mentioning that right up until a few minutes before the killing blow was to commence, he really _had_ asked for it, or at least allowed what transpired to continue. He’d even… he’d enjoyed it, as much as the silent admission makes his blood burn. 

“It… felt like a good idea, at the time, the pikes. Something my father would have done were he still around. Vlad Dracula Tepes,” he spits, “indeed-”

You stiffen. 

Alucard realizes that he’s never told you the name of his father, the man whose castle you stay in. Perhaps, even in your far-off, remote village, Dracula was a name you’d heard of, one you feared. 

“Well, that explains why I thought your name looked so familiar…” you murmur. Alucard can feel your breath against his collarbone, and he tries to focus on that one thing to prevent himself from reeling in relief at the calmness in your voice. “Alucard is just Dracula backwards… Don’t tell me he really named you that right out the womb?”

Despite himself, despite his fear and his relief at your not shoving him away immediately and the feeling that he is walking on _very_ thin ice with your perception of him hanging by a thread, Alucard finds it in himself to laugh.

“I took it up myself - the people of Gresit gave it to me. It’s what they know me as, and it was meant to represent that I stand against what my father did - against mass murdering and suffering and everything that my poor mother tried so hard to stamp out of him.”

He can feel you looking up at him, and he stares down with wonder at your resilience. 

“So, what _is_ your name, then? Your real name?”

His throat clenches. No one had ever cared enough - Trevor and Sypha just went along with the given moniker, and the _others_ … well, by then “Alucard” just seemed better, safer, almost. 

“Adrian,” he whispers, the name sounding foreign in his own mouth. “Adrian Tepes.”

“Hhm,” you muse, once again tracing the scars along his chest. “I like that. _Adrian_ …”

You draw out the syllables, making the simple word into a melody, a song. A symphony. 

The sound of it on your tongue makes him shiver. “Do you?”

You hum. “Don’t get me wrong, Alucard is nice too, but… it sounds more formal, more like a title.” You look up at him through your lashes, and it’s at that moment that Alucard knows he has a human heart, even after everything, for the way it yearns and lurches at that one glance is so hauntingly _mortal_. “It sounds more like a proper name - a human name, first and last.”

“You really like it? Better than the other, I mean?”

Your nose scrunches, considering. The paths of your tears have dried in salty streaks around your eyes, sharp and painful looking as the skin there too crinkles in thought. “I’ll call you whatever you prefer,” you say. 

“But if you had to pick? Choose something to call me by, either human or vampire…?”

He doesn’t know why he presses it. He isn’t even sure which answer he expects you to give - if you can see any sort of humanity within him still, if his vampiric nature outweighs all in the end. It’s a battle he himself can’t win, can’t figure out where he fits. It used to be so clear, that distinction. He’d thought himself fully human because that was the side which he indulged - he ate human food instead of blood, placing a self imposed dampening on his vampiric abilities. But after he’d killed Taka and Sumi, after he’d _mounted_ them…

He suddenly wishes more than anything that those corpses were gone, that he’d never impaled them to begin with. He’d been scared, and reckless, and so convinced that humans were corrupt, evil things that wanted him dead, gone…

He’d been closer to vampire ever since, but seeing you, cooking and caring for you… it had brought him back from the edge, unknowingly, into that gray area between the duality of his nature, and he isn’t sure of anything anymore. 

Perhaps if you can see it, see _him_ , guide him across the chasm… maybe you can save him, too. You had certainly succeeded in saving yourself.

Your hand smooths over his chest, the fabric of his shirt closing once again, his modesty preserved. You find his hair instead, fiddling with the ends of it like you had that day in the sunlight, that one moment etched into Alucard’s memory forever. He recalls it when he has nightmares, when he wakes in a cold sweat feeling trapped and vulnerable and violated, he conjures your face in his waking moments, memorizing the planes of it, the twinkling wonder in your eyes. No one had ever looked at him like that, with such awe. Not his father, who saw him with calculating torment, especially at the end. Not his mother, who loved him, but who had other duties, other people to care for. Sypha had for the merest of moments, that day in the catacombs when she found him, proclaimed him to be her savior. That look went away as soon as he’d started talking, started fighting. Perhaps that’s why he was so entranced by her - he just wanted her to look at him like that again, like he was worth something, like he had value, something unique and desirable. 

“If I have to choose…” you sigh, the blond hair wrapped gently around your finger. “I think Adrian suits you more in moments like this. Soft moments.”

It _is_ a soft moment, he thinks, watching you as a bit of sunlight peeks out from behind a cloud and plays upon your face, the skin there still blotchy from crying. 

“Adrian it is, then,” he agrees, finding a weight pressing off his chest. 

He means to ask you if you’d like for him to go, or perhaps send him away to bring up breakfast. Somehow, his voice seems to be buried somewhere unreachable, and as your fingers continue to weave his hair, sending little tingling sensations up along his scalp as you twist and knead, the desire to leave seems so far away, so unnecessary. His breathing slows, his eyelids grow heavy with exhaustion. He will not sleep. Not yet, not with the memory of having someone else in his bed still so close in mind for fear it will cause him to wake and hurt you out of panicked instinct. You, however, still in his arms a few moments later, limp and pliant and oh so soft.

As he stares down at you, somewhat awed by the sight of someone being so gentle with his delicate heart, so accepting of his past, Adrian realizes that there is precious little he will not do for you.


	14. A Little Magic

You slept for the entirety of the day as well as most of the night. It wasn’t so much out of exhaustion, although that did play a part, as it was out of simply having no other desire. You don’t want to read, don’t want to be reminded of the thing that had very nearly killed you. You are struck by the sudden pointlessness of it all - no matter how many books you consume on the subject, no matter how well versed you are in night creature physiology, it will do nothing to save you. You had genuinely thought otherwise before, but now… you feel truly helpless, weak. 

Adrian had brought up your blue dress from the study along with a light breakfast. You sit with it now, sewing stitches you aren’t really focused on in fabric you can’t be bothered to see. It is something to do, at least, that has a purpose. Your green kirtle, though cleaned thoroughly by Adrian, is almost painful to put on in the same way that the red dress had been. You’ve been living in the night shift that Adrian loaned to you, though you make sure to wrap a large blanket around yourself whenever he enters, half out of a sense of modesty but also because he still seems to be on edge when he sees you in it plainly, as if the sight holds bad memories.

_Another story_ , he’d whispered when he first saw you in it. 

You wonder if he’ll ever tell you. 

Adrian frowns when he returns to your bedroom from what he said was his “morning patrol” to find that you’ve hardly touched your breakfast. You’d tried, of course, but somehow the thought of food makes you nauseous, makes you remember the last thing that had been in your mouth, the hot, metallic blood. 

“Is there anything else I can get that you would prefer?” he asks, taking away the now cold cinnamon porridge. “An apple, some bread?”

You shake your head morosely from where you sit on the window seat, wrapped in a blanket with your sewing forgotten by your feet. 

You feel him watching you, radiating waves of concern. You get the sense that he isn’t used to comforting people, easing troubled minds. In all honesty, he seems to have trouble keeping his own in check. You enjoyed the closeness you shared on the bed, you long to do it again, but Adrian has since kept his distance. He’s come near, been polite, of course, but he hasn’t touched your wrist again, hasn’t gotten near enough for you to play with his hair. 

He’d been out of the bed when you woke up. You told yourself you didn’t mind, you didn’t miss him. Didn’t miss the nice, warm distraction from the feeling of phantom teeth, ghostly claws. 

You don’t remember ever being so afraid. You’d panicked when the men first took you, out of fear that they would abuse you on the spot. The worries had lessened when you realized that they meant to keep you intact, giving you more time to think of an escape, a way out. They were only men, only humans. They could be beaten, outsmarted. You’d felt that it was only a matter of time before you found freedom.

And look how far you’ve come. Still trapped, still defenseless, still locked up inside where you can only hope that you are safe, but now the opponent has changed. No longer mere man, and no longer pure speculation. Physical, monstrous terror, your worst fears manifested. You’ve always had a plan to escape, ever since the men first took you: you would jump out the wagon the first chance you got and run away. You’ve considered much the same upon taking up residence in the castle, wondering if you _could_ even manage to slip past Adrian and into the woods should the need ever arise. It had seemed improbable before with his heightened senses and the need you had for medical attention, but now… 

Impossible. Utterly impossible. Not when he’s made no threat to harm you, to do anything but help you. Not when there are things like _that_ out there. 

He makes a small sound in his throat, and you realize that you’ve been staring out the window rather pointedly. 

“Do you…” he shakes his head. “There are no others. Nothing more is coming.”

Your eyes are wide when you look at him. Wide and somehow, sad. “How can you know? What if they’re hiding?”

“I would have smelled them.”

“ _Smelled_ them?”

Adrian shifts a little, nodding. 

“So you can hear heartbeats and smell monsters,” you laugh, sounding hollow. “Next thing I know you’ll say you can… shapeshift or something.”

All it takes is a slightly sheepish look on his part for you to know that you have guessed yet another ability of his. 

“Well… it’s a common thing amongst vampires, to be sure. Illusions, mostly. Turning into bats or even particularly aggressive mists seems to be favored.”

You scrunch your nose. “ _Mists_?”

“I never understood it myself,” he admits, something softening in his face a little. “My father insisted that I learn the skill, but I’ve only ever really managed one transformation.”

You raise an eyebrow, both curious and hesitant to know exactly what manner of thing Adrian can change into.

To your surprise, a bit of color tinges his cheeks, and he looks away. “I can do a rather convincing wolf, I suppose.”

You think about it for a moment, inspecting the slant of his nose, his slightly upturned, golden eyes. “Somehow, I’m not surprised.”

He blushes ever so slightly more. “I don’t do it often,” he says, clearing his throat. “Just… to check the borders sometimes. It seems more fitting to be a wolf in the woods at night instead of… well, myself. Less dangerous too, if I run into any particularly brave humans.”

He manages to quirk his brow in reference to you, a gesture and a suggestion which make you scoff. You vaguely remember seeing a white wolf on one of the first nights you spent in the palace, graceful and still and ghostly. You haven’t seen it since, and you wonder if Adrian had even meant for you to notice him in the first place. 

“Does it feel strange? To be a wolf?”

Adran tilts his head for a moment. “When I first learned it, yes. It certainly hurt like hell.Transforming takes a lot of concentration. Skill even. You have to reshape your own bones after all, will them into submission.”

“Does it still hurt?”

You aren’t sure where your sudden curiosity has come from. Maybe it's just that you’re so desperate to think about something other than night creatures and your own helplessness that your mind will take any distraction and devour it whole. 

Adrian merely shakes his head, looking distant for a long, silent moment. “I could… show you. As a reward for doing something for me.”

Your mood, which has only marginally improved, falters at that statement. “Oh?”

“If you will suffer through a lesson in magic, I will show you my little party trick.”

“ _Magic_?” How on earth could he be serious? “But I’ve never… I can’t possibly…”

“It is something that can be taught, learned. From my understanding, humans have an innate magical ability. Some just learn to develop it more than others, for better or for worse.”

You stare at the floor, at the dress forgotten by your feet, at the green kirtle still draped carefully on your bed along with your white shift. You’re very aware that Adrian’s eyes are on you as well, though you are certain that you will be unable to meet them.

“What if I’m the only non magical human?”

He nearly laughs at that, and you’re shocked to realize that you’ve never heard the sound of a laugh from him. Scoffs, snickers, yes, but never a full, roaring laugh through a wide grin. And somehow, you want to hear nothing else. 

“If you can manage to run a mile on a broken ankle, I think you’ll find conjuring up a small spell to be no trouble at all.”

So, albeit begrudgingly. you agree. You don’t really have much of a choice. The only other alternative is sitting at that windowsill until you’ve lost your mind to worry and grief and thoughts of what could have been, what _should_ have been, perhaps. 

You’d learned before not to succumb to such thoughts. When you’d been first taken, you were brought to a large house with other girls who had been snatched from their homes. There weren’t enough of you to take on all your captors at once, and so you could do nothing but sit and wait to be appraised, sold. You, luckily enough, were deemed too good to be touched, and so the men left you alone. You didn’t blame the other girls there at all for their empty eyes, their hopeless expressions. You had busied yourself with plotting escape, getting away, thinking that anything would be better than feeling numb, vacant. 

So, as much as you want to stew, to do nothing and feel sorry for yourself, you accept the chance to move, to dress. To be taken care of - something you still haven’t gotten quite used to, if only to avoid finding comfort solely in that dreaded numbness. Adrian waits in the hall while you change your clothes. It feels less terrible than you were expecting it to, the green kirtle. It fits you nicely still, provides some structure, some sense of normalcy. Your ankle has improved over the weeks that you’ve stayed, and you are able to apply just a bit of pressure to it while walking to the door, though Adrian carries you down the stairs as normal. You remember how he feels lying close to you as you press against his chest, how safe. 

He takes you to a rather spectacular ballroom at the end of the main hall, adorned with more stylized windows and little else besides a tall, golden chandelier looming far above your head, nestled between arches befitting a cathedral.

“It seemed like the best open place indoors,” he explains, setting you down and watching as you take in all the pillars surrounding you, their detail. “I don’t recall it being used in my lifetime, but I imagine it was once a rather lovely place. Or, at least, it had the potential to be.”

Aside from the mentioning of his name on the lips of the occasional traveler, you know nothing of Dracula, of what his life was. Adrian’s cryptic hints seem to suggest that he was capable of great wickedness before meeting the woman who would become his wife. Obviously he wasn’t all terrible, if he’d had an active part in Adrian’s upbringing. He certainly hasn’t turned out evil, or so you can tell. 

“Will it be a big spell?” you ask, feeling daunted standing in the middle of the large, empty ballroom while Adrian trots off to fetch some books he’s left nearer to a wall. 

“No,” he says. “But it has potential to do some damage, and while I care very little about most of this place, I’d rather not make more work for myself cleaning up splintered bits of furniture if not totally necessary.”

You can’t argue with that logic, but you still haven't any clue what it is that you are supposed to do. At least you can stand on your own now. Mostly. 

“I am by no means an expert in this,” Adrian begins, frowning at a page. “If I could delegate this task to someone else with more knowledge, I would. But, seeing as it is just you and I, I’m afraid you’ll have to put up with me.”

“You cannot possibly know less than I do,” you sigh.

His lips twitch at that, but he makes no move to correct you. Instead, Adrian hands you the book. A lot of the writing seems to be in at least two old languages you don’t recognize, but a few newer notes in your native tongue have been scrawled neatly in the margins. Not enough to be a full translation, but there are some phonetically spelled out words, suggestions. 

“You… want me to summon a ball of flames?” you ask, glancing up at Adrian to see if you’ve gotten it right. 

He nods. “It’s a useful, practical spell. Good for lighting a hearth, or a lantern. Or a campfire, should the need arise.”

There’s something in his eyes that he isn’t saying, but you’re too absorbed in trying to figure out how, precisely, you are supposed to create fire from nothing. 

“I don’t know… it hardly looks simple to me. How many languages am I looking at, exactly?”

Some have letters which are familiar, others do not. It makes your head hurt just looking at it.

“Three, mostly. English, Latin, and Enochian.”

“Does it matter which I use?”

“It has varying degrees of effectiveness. A true magician would use Enochian, or even Adamic, if they know it.”

You squint at what you can only describe as squiggly lines. “And me?”

“I’d have you try Latin, if you’re up to it. It’s close enough to what you know already, and it will be more effective than something which has been translated thrice or more.”

“More effective or easier?” you grumble, suddenly very much regretting your decision and feeling far out of your depth. 

Somehow, perhaps by some great miracle, Adrian seems to be blessed with endless patience today. He merely points a long, graceful finger at two words, underlined, and asks you to pronounce them.

“Ff-lam, ff-lamm-is? Infer… Infer-nigh?”

Adrian is smiling, or as close to smiling as he can get. 

“ _Flammis Inferni_ ,” he says.

“...Oh.”

“Try again.”

And so you do. Several times, actually. You never quite get the pronunciation perfect - the two words seem to join together on Adrian’s tongue when he says it, and there’s particular emphasis on the beginning and end of _flammis_ and the middle of _inferni_ , with the ending “ni” pronounced like “knee.” The shapes feel strange in your mouth, but after a few more attempts, Adrian nods his head. 

“That should do.”

“What does it mean?” you ask, glad to be speaking something else, something you know.

“It’s a very literal translation of 'hellfire,'” he replies, closing the book and gently kicking it away. “There is more to it than just the words, I’m afraid.”

You roll your eyes, and Adrian has you mimic a series of movements to fit the incantation. The motion begins with your hands held at your breastbone like a prayer, facing each other but not touching, and you are to swiftly slide your right up and your left down. This constitutes _flammis_. Your wrists then rotate to create a column of space between your palms ( _in_ ), you move your hands together ( _fer_ ), and then arch your fingers and pull away ( _ni_.) It is not difficult, nor is it painful on your healing skin, but you can’t help but think it is a little lackluster. 

“And what is supposed to happen when I do it all together?”

Adrian takes a few steps back, far enough away to not accidentally set you on fire, you suppose. His hands come up to his chest, he says the incantation, and just as you begin to fear that nothing will happen and that this is only a practical joke, a small, flickering flame appears between his two palms, slowly coaxed to life as his hands spread vertically apart. 

You can’t help but stare at it, that fire. No bigger than a child’s fist at first, and the spherical base of it is stable, unmoving. You’ve never seen anything like it - fire burning from nothing, no kindling other than air, no start, no spark. 

To put it out, Adrian’s wrists twist his hands around the flame in the shape of a half circle parallel to his body. His left hand is now on top of the flame instead of his right, and he quickly flattens the two together, touching his own skin for the first time in the spell. When his hands separate, the flame is gone, and his palms are smooth, unburnt. 

“You make it look so easy,” you marvel, staring at your own hands rather doubtfully.

Adrian shrugs. “It is, once you know how it feels. Once you’ve managed to do this spell, the others will come more easily.”

“Others?”

Adrian’s lips press together as if he’s just let himself slip. You stare him down, and he looks to the side. “I thought that it might help you, to know these things. This is the simplest part of the spell, but when you master it, you can add modifications to send the fire towards anything you desire - enemies, night creatures…”

You stiffen. Regardless of whether or not you’re able to achieve such things, Adrian has given you a weapon - one that you could feasibly use against him. Granted, you still have to summon the flame, but it’s as if he’s put a dagger within your reach as opposed to the butter knives you use to chop vegetables for dinner. All you have to do is grab it, and then you aren’t defenseless anymore. Not entirely. 

_He trusts you_ , you think, your stomach doing a sort of flip while the rest of you takes a deep breath and readies your hands, your tongue. Your mind.  
You shut your eyes as you do it, trying to imagine flames, heat. Warmth between your hands as you say the words and complete the motions. You squint your eyes open, only to find… 

Nothing. 

Of course.

“A valiant effort,” Adrian smiles. “Again.”

“I don’t know what it’s supposed to feel like,” you say, clenching your palms. “I’ve never done magic before. Obviously.”

He tilts his head, thinking. After a moment, he steps closer to you, something unspoken on his lips. He offers his hand, palm up, and fearing only some strange shocking sensation and not the action or the touch itself, you take it. 

You feel nothing out of the ordinary, just the smooth, strong shape of his hand, until -

A slight tingle. Not in your hand or in your wrists, but at the base of your skull. There’s another a moment later at your sternum, and it grows into something warmer, a glow. Eventually, it spreads down your arms, pushing like water down a stream until it pools in your hand. Adrian’s grip tightens a little on it.

“ _That’s_ your magic,” he says simply, searching for something in your eyes.  
“Remember the feeling and try again.”

He takes his hand away, steps back, and the tingling stops instantly, the conductor apparently lost. You feel heavier all of a sudden, as if a weight you didn’t know you were carrying has suddenly doubled in size. Once again, you close your eyes, take some deep breaths. Try your best to conjure the image of flames, the feeling of magic. 

“ _Flammis Inferni_ ,” you utter, your hands sliding and spinning and pressing.

You feel a faint stirring of something in between your palms, but it is distant, a mere echo of the pleasant buzz you’d just experienced. 

Without being prompted, you swivel your hands, press your left to your right, and start again. 

“ _Flammis Inferni_.”

_A spark_ , you think, that tingling at your skull returning for the span of a heartbeat. You feel the magic build for all of a moment before it is snuffed out. 

_Again_.

“ _Flammis. Inferni_.”

You feel the words more than you say them, feel them echoing in your empty head as something splutters to life between your fingers, hot and burning and -

“Open your eyes,” Adrian urges.

You do, only to be met with a small, flickering orb between your palms, twinkling at you mischievously. You’re almost afraid that your surprise will pop the flame like a soap bubble. It feels like such a tentative, barely sustained thing, but it holds, a fire suspended by willpower alone. 

You dare to let your eyes dart to Adrian, to see if he’s as enraptured by the flames as you are. He’s staring at them with set lips, the light flickering in his irises as if they are made of the same substance themselves. 

He nods, as if in approval of your efforts, and you slowly, carefully, spin around so that your left hand is on top. You’re afraid to burn when you close your hands, and it makes you hesitate for a moment. But Adrian had been alright, and so, holding your breath, you quickly clasp your palms together, watching the flames billow over the sides for just a second before being snuffed out. The magic doesn’t go away entirely yet - you can feel it still bursting forth at your skin, heightened, hungry.

“Breathe,” Adrian says, the word soft. “Release it, send it back to your chest. Let it sink.”

You marvel at how well he’s able to read you, how attuned to your inner thoughts he’s become. You do your best, trying to imagine the release of the glimmering sensation, sending it down, burying it within you. Some of the lightheadedness remains, but after a careful inspection, Adrian seems to deem you approachable once again. 

“I suspect a history of magicians somewhere in your lineage,” he remarks in a very matter-of-fact manner. “You picked it up rather well.”

You rub your hands together in the way that you might do if they were particularly cold, trying to return a sense of normalcy to them. “Will it always feel like that? Tingly?”

That half-smile again. “You’ll grow more accustomed to it. Different spells have different effects on the body, and it varies based on the type and power, the age. But yes, I suppose it will feel rather strange to you at first. I hardly notice my own anymore.”

“Do you use magic often?” you ask, trying to get some kind of distraction for yourself. 

“For the sword mostly,” he replies. “And the wolf, but I don’t have much use for it. The castle is enchanted itself to obey my commands, so I don’t need to exert any particular energy for opening doors.”

You’d forgotten about the wolf form, about how that is to be your reward for completing the lesson. Once again, you imagine Adrian with white fur and golden eyes, and while you have no trouble picturing it, you also get a sense of unease. After all, the last thing you’d seen staring down at you with fangs had been the night creature, and you still can’t get that sight out of your head. 

“You… don’t have to turn into the wolf, if you don’t want to,” you say softy, looking down. “The magic is rewarding enough.”

“I did offer to do it and it isn’t difficult.” Adrian says it offhandedly, as if he thinks your main concern is for his stamina. 

You’ve seen wolves before. They were a natural, if not a common occurrence for a shepherdess tending her flock. They were usually younger, gray colored blurs that looked hungry, and desperate. Not huge, hulking creatures of darkness which sneak up, waiting to strike. 

Still, they are dangerous. 

“Will it… still be _you_ , under it all?” you ask, unable to keep the quivering from your tone entirely. You glance up at Adrian, realizing how close he’s gotten. 

Something passes in his eyes, as if he’s perhaps realizing what you’re afraid of - of seeing him disappear, turn into some monster, some unfeeling creature that will devour you whole. The very thing you’ve had nightmares of. 

“Yes,” he says softly. “It will still be me. I won’t be able to speak until I change back, however.”

You hear the night creature’s strange voice in your head again, and decide that it’s for the best. 

After a moment of waiting, you nod your head, shuffle a few steps back, your ankle still not healed to the point of placing all your weight on it. 

Adrian watches you, and with a barely audible intake of air, takes a step to his left. 

When he’s spun a full circle, a large white wolf stares back in his place, the transformation happening almost more quickly than you can even register. 

He sits, rather politely, and holds very still, golden eyes fixed on a spot by your feet.

You wait for the fear to start freezing you, for your joints to lock or your heartbeat to quicken. You wait for your throat to seize and clench and for that horrible, painful feeling of dread to arise.

But nothing happens. There is no terror, no snarling demon. All that sits before you is a very normal looking - if not rather tidy - white wolf with Adrian’s eyes. The eyes of someone you know, you trust. 

_“You’re… a friend. My friend,”_ He’d said the night before, as if it was a badge of honor not easily bestowed, as if you were perhaps his only. 

You let yourself sink to your knees, feeling too tall all of a sudden, too big as you tower over him for a change. Adrian’s head snaps up quickly, and you’re hit with the intensity in his gaze, the concern. You reach out your hand, tentatively at first, letting your silent ask hover in the air, a request he can either accept or deny.

He hesitates for a moment, staring at you. And then one great white paw steps in front of the other, and in a breath, he’s sitting directly before you, close enough that you can smell his fur. 

“You _are_ a very convincing wolf,” you agree as he cautiously tilts his head to the side to give you an easy place to pet where his shoulders meet his neck. Your hand disappears into dense, snowy fur. It’s so different from a sheep’s wool, but yet, you are reminded of your small flock, the only thing in your past life that you can really recall with any fondness. With no one there to protect them, the sheep which had not been taken in by neighboring farmers were likely left to the wolves, defenseless against their sharp teeth, their appetites-

A huff of air hits your shoulder, startling you back to the present. You realize that you’ve gripped the fur in your hands a little too tightly, and you release instantly.

“I’m sorry,” you say, smoothing the fur back down and finding your voice to be a worn, crackling thing. “I was just… remembering my farm.”

Adrian doesn’t move. 

“My poor sheep,” you sigh, breaking suddenly after all these weeks, all these months away, as if the first second you get to a place emotionally where you aren’t afraid of being turned out, of being harmed, your conscience decides to unload all the guilt, all the sadness of abandoning them. “They were probably so scared all holed up in their pens, waiting for someone to come and let them out, give them food. Shear their coats so that they didn’t become tangled up in themselves. They probably thought I abandoned them, left them to die…”

You remove your hands from his pelt to wipe at your own misting eyes, embarrassed and sad and confused as to why this is all coming out _now_ of all times. You suspect that it has something to do with the magic, the slight shaking that hasn’t seemed to go away even now. 

“I’m sorry, Adrian,” you manage with a self-pitying laugh, burying your head in your hands. “I used to… I guess I used to tell all my problems to those sheep. No one else would listen, no one else was around. I know it’s silly but… I do miss them.”

You feel something pushing at your arms clenched in front of you, fighting its way through. You’re no less surprised to find a dark, wet nose duck under your arms rather insistently. Slowly as if to make sure that Adrian is really asking you to do what you think he is, you let yourself wrap around his neck, pressing your face into that soft, dense fur. You feel his muzzle press against your shoulder blades, tucking you into him in much the same way as he’d done before in your bed. Despite his usually cold, stiff demeanor, you can’t help but wonder if Adrian actually enjoys contact like this, soft, comforting touches and embraces that make you feel less alone if not any less fragile, wondering if maybe they mean more to him than you know. 

Wondering if maybe he needs them just as much as you, and if maybe the wolf form makes physical affection easier for him, somehow. Less personal. 

You aren’t really sure how long you stay like that for, but when your knees start to dig a little too painfully into the hard ballroom floor, you pull back. This close, even through your tears, you can see the faint partings in his fur where you’ve noted scars to be - a large gap across his chest, and then smaller lines all over his body. When you start to stand, the wolf takes a step to his left, and after a quick spin, Adrian offers you a very human hand with which to help. 

You ignore the little flush of color to his cheeks when you finally manage to stand and meet his eyes. “Very impressive,” you laugh, trying to change the tone into something more happy. “If I saw you out in the wild I would be totally convinced.”

His lips twitch. “My father always wanted me to change the color of the fur, make it something more common. He said it was a better disguise, to be plain, unnoticeable. The idea was that if I cannot readily turn into a bat or mist, then I should make my most conspicuous form something quite boring.”

Taking in his human form again, the delicate curve to his collarbone flanked by strong shoulders and a toned chest, you cannot help but snort. “The last thing you could possibly be is boring.”

Adrian turns back to you on that, tilting his head and looking like you’ve just said the strangest thing. He blinks the expression away, and his hands clench at his sides. “I suppose my… history is rather unusual.”

“I didn’t mean your history,” you say, taking a step forward. “I mean _you_.”

He goes quite still indeed. “...You hardly even know me.”

There is more surprise to his voice than malice, as if he’s genuinely shocked that you’ve formed an opinion on him in the little time that you’ve known him for. But you have, and maybe it’s due to all the time you had in captivity, but you’re good at reading people, at noticing things. And there are so many things to notice about Adrian, all of which are most certainly interesting. 

But that isn’t just something you can blurt out now, is it?

“Then tell me,” you muse, looking up at him. “If you want me to keep learning magic, tell me one thing about you for every spell that I manage.”

Adrian stares at you, and for the longest moment, you are sure he’s going to decline. “I…” a pause. A sigh. “What sort of things?”

“Simple stuff, trivialities,” you say, rocking on your heels. “Your favorite color, any childhood pets you might have had. How you keep your hair looking so perfect all the time.”

A little huff of air from his nose, and you count it as a laugh. 

Adrian relaxes a bit, as if content to know that you aren’t trying to force any information out of him that he isn’t willing to part with. “I’m afraid the answers to those rather mundane questions aren’t going to aid my case much. Aside from the history, I _am_ quite dull.”

“I beg to differ, but… even so, is being dull really so terrible?”

“It doesn’t win one many favors based on personality or charm.”

He looks away again, and something in your heart breaks a little. You look down at his hands, still clenched, and a moment later you reach for them, folding them gently into your own. “You are not dull, or boring, or lacking in charm, Adrian,” you say very softly. “If anything, you’re just more quiet about things, and people might not have enough time to realize it. Just because others don’t see you the way I do, it doesn’t mean that you are missing something.”

He’s fixated on your hands holding his, perfectly motionless. He does not move, does not hold you back, but he does not make to pull away either. 

The softest intake of air on his end, and then as if he’s forcing himself to speak before he loses the nerve, he asks, “and how do you see me?”

A bit of lightness presses into your chest, a bit of fear at being so vulnerable, at wondering how much, _exactly_ , you should say. 

“You’re patient, kind. Willing to put up with and save me on multiple occasions,” you laugh a little, perhaps to break the tension. “Thoughtful, observant. Perhaps a bit… reserved, but not without reason, I’m sure.”

You dare to look up at him again, taking in his wide, glossed eyes now fixated on you with a pang of something you cannot place lurching in your stomach. “Though that latter bit is a shame, only because I think you have a great deal of compassion in you that never gets a chance to see the light of day.”

Adrian stares at you for a long moment, his gaze searching your face while his brow contorts into something that looks like it will shatter at any moment. You aren’t sure what he’s looking for, if he wants you to say something more, but just as you’re beginning to open your mouth to ask, you aren’t able to so much as blink before you feel yourself pulled forward into Adrian’s arms as they wrap tightly around you. His head buries into the crook of your neck, and you swear you feel his fingers trembling against your back. 

Your own arms hesitate only out of surprise before they find their way around him, your hands grazing over the strong muscles in his back as they tense beneath the action. 

“You are… _far_ too kind. Thank you,” he breathes, muffled. 

This hug is different to the one you’d just shared with him as a wolf. He’d been comforting you then, allowing you to press into him while not truly reciprocating. Perhaps two hugs so close to each other is a bit strange, but then again, you don’t have much experience in such things. You haven’t been comforted by such a hug for a very long time, and from the way Adrian clings to you now, you get the suspicion that he hasn’t either. This isn’t your hug, it’s _his_ \- his for being comforted, for being held together before he breaks, or perhaps, while he is in the process of it, if only for the briefest of moments.

Regardless, you hold him just a bit tighter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So quick disclaimer - I know my Latin isn't the best, so if you actually speak it, I am sorry.
> 
> Also, while Adrian doesn't really use magic in the show, Alucard _does_ use magic in the Castlevania games. I used the Symphony of the Night wiki (https://castlevania.fandom.com/wiki/Spell) to help refer to the compendium of spells at his disposal, one of which being Hellfire (which, when modified slightly, is actually Dracula's signature spell ;) )
> 
> (Oh, and - listen to the Symphony of the Night soundtrack PLEASE it is so, so good. 'The Tragic Prince' especially.)


	15. The Larger Picture

For the next few days, you fall into a different sort of routine. Gone are the afternoon walks, the carefree preparation of meals, the quiet studying in the library on a chaise. It isn’t all bad, nowadays, though. There is still structure. You wake up earlier than before, often when the world is still dark, and you find yourself sitting on your windowsill watching the sunrise more often than not, curled up and motionless. Sunrises in Wallachia are bleak things, usually, especially as the weather grows colder, frigid. Gray. 

The leaves have finally started to change color, though, and you spot Adrian’s wolf amongst the yellowing foliage as he returns from his morning patrol quite often, if not daily.

He’s grown a bit more tense, as if expecting each patrol to be the one where he’ll stumble upon an ambush waiting to attack. You never discuss what you are to do should that fear come to fruition, if you should hide or try to summon fireballs or some other magic spell you’re working on in some effort to help. Talking about it makes it seem too real, too certain of happening. 

You do work on more spells though, the unspoken threat looming over your heads serving as a subtle motivation to get _good_ , to try harder. You give your all to these lessons, and they come to take up much of your time and energy. True to his agreement, Adrian gives you small snippets of information about himself after each successful attempt, and while you cherish each with tender care, none of it is particularly informative. 

“My favorite time of day is dawn,” he says softly after you’ve conjured a small version of what you believe to be a summoned light spirit. “My father couldn’t stand the daylight - literally. He’d burn and turn to ash if he so much as tried, unless of course it was particularly overcast. If I stayed up late enough, I could watch the sunrise, be rebellious in the only way that I dared.”

“So, the thing with full-vampires and sunlight is true, then?” you ask, once again rubbing your hands together to dispel the strange tingling. You do not miss the pained look on his face, his reluctance to give you any actual information about vampires, presumably so that you cannot use it against him as he’s so often stated his fear of. 

“Yes.”

“Is it an instant death?” you ask. “Does it have to be direct sunlight or does it still work if filtered through a window?”

Adrian fidgets, looks down. “It depends on the power level of the individual,” he says, and the tone of his voice begs you to leave it at that. 

You bite your lip during such times, but your questions are becoming harder to suppress. You dwell on them as you sew the blue dress, a thing which is becoming increasingly and unnecessarily elaborate as you are loathe to have nothing else to do. Once the dress is done, you’ll be forced to return to pouring over old tomes, books on night creatures and now spells to combat them with in order to pass the time not spent practicing magic in the ballroom. When you mention as much to Adrian over dinner one night after he casually asks how progress on the garment is coming along, he suggests adding more lessons to your daily routine. 

“We can go over medicinal things as well,” he says, sipping white wine through a very loose grip. He hasn’t broken another glass since that one night, but you can’t help but remember the image. “Ideally, it will be of more use to you than spellcasting, though I don’t think it will be any less safe in regards to suspected witchcraft.”

You wince, and so does he. There seems to be very few topics which are not painful to mention, to discuss. Witchcraft, and subsequently being tried and found guilty for said crime, is one such topic. 

“I mean, ideally, I won’t have any use for either,” you reply, pushing the food around on your plate. “But it might prove to be a good distraction. And be less tiresome.”

“More boring, though.”

You scrunch your nose up at him playfully. Despite your rather tender conversation, Adrian seems to think no better of himself or of his own company, but he doesn’t withdraw from you. You do get the sense that he is aware that you enjoy his presence, even if he doesn’t quite understand your sentiments. You don’t let yourself dwell on wondering if he returns them.

Your days become filled with all sorts of knowledge, then. Adrian teaches you human anatomy in the mornings, incorporating the best places to stab an opponent as well as what to do to treat such wounds. He is careful to mention that stabbing a vampire would result in something different, but what exactly, he does not say. He gives you lists of herbs to memorize, as well as where to find them. Sometimes he muses on what dandelion infused tea would do, or what plants need to be cooked before being consumable. Which plants should never be eaten by mortals. Your base knowledge in the matter helps, and it is nice to have something so familiar to focus on, so mundane as earthy things that you can see and touch and smell. Adrian also takes the opportunity to teach you how bones heal, using your own ankle as an example. 

“You’ll need to start walking on it more and more now,” he tells you, gently sliding your leg off the examination table you’re sitting on. “Otherwise the muscles will atrophy from disuse.”

“Shall I start pacing the halls like some tragic heroine?”

“When the weather doesn’t permit time outside, perhaps,” he smiles, tightly.

Neither of you have yet seriously mentioned going outside. Adrian seems to be waiting for you to ask him, to be ready. Truthfully, you aren’t sure that you ever will be. He finds nothing on his patrols, not even a scent on the breeze, but he doesn’t stop them, his motives perhaps coming from the same place as your own - fear. Unease. The expectation that something _will_ come, eventually. 

“I don’t want to go out and see the creature’s body,” you whisper, looking down, realizing that you’ve never actually asked Adrian what he did with it and assuming it’s just been rotting there in the week and a half since the incident. 

“It’s gone,” he says. “I burned it long ago using the same spell I showed to you.”

“...Even the bones?”

“Also gone. Spelled fire possesses more capacity for destruction than normal flames, when modified correctly. The grass is a bit scorched though, not that it wasn’t in disarray to begin with.”

You mean to say nothing further, not wanting to leave the safety of the castle walls, but you can tell that Adrian has more to discuss, more on his mind. 

“I think that getting out would do you some good,” he admits in a barely audible whisper. “Being holed up in here has its… detriments.”

You glance around the still new and curious room, begrudgingly considering. Along with the medical lessons, Adrian has shown you into what seems to be a laboratory of some kind. Tall and bathed in golden light without any windows, there are endless books and vials and all sorts of equipment that you cannot begin to comprehend. The castle does seem truly endless, and even if Adrian declares that most of the rooms are empty or in states of disrepair, you see no real reason why you cannot simply get in your daily walking by exploring it. You don’t even have to do so alone - Adrian is perfectly welcome to come along and keep you from snooping. 

“Think on it,” he urges softly before dropping the matter. 

“Perhaps.”

The evenings are filled with spellcasting, mostly because they are so draining to you. Magic, you find, demands all your focus and attention, and at the end of the day, you are happy to be carried up all the stairs riding out the floating, glimmering feeling that you get from your attempts. Before each lesson begins, Adrian has you recast the things that you know - the hellfire spell - _flammis inferni_ \- and the summoned spirit of light - _Spiritus autem lux_. Despite going at it all for over a week, Adrian spends painstaking amounts of time on each spell, having you progress through several levels of them before moving on. You might have thought that you would grow tired of doing the same things over and over again, but in all honesty, you find each new variation on the spells to be quite interesting. You learn to slowly project the flame between your hands, listening to Adrian’s instructions on how to control it. Once you’ve managed to bring it in a full, measured circle around your person, he teaches you how to use that orbital momentum to send the flame bursting forth to hit constructed targets consisting of random castle debris. He even begins to levitate the objects, moving them with increasing speed along the ballroom and encouraging you to hit them. You miss frequently, of course, and the ballroom has indeed picked up a few new scorch marks , but Adrian never chastises you for it, though he does mention offhandedly that these lessons would perhaps be better held outside, much to your sheepish mortification. 

You move onto the light then, making a gesture that consists of crossing your extended hands at the wrist with your palms first facing you and then swiveling them downwards and out to extend the glowing white orb from your person. In its base state, the spell could theoretically be used as a substitute for candlelight, but Adrian informs you that it takes a great deal of skill to maintain and control, and has you focus on hitting targets with it instead. Your attacks are never particularly destructive, and you assume that you just aren’t powerful enough yet, but you hit your marks with a slowly increasing accuracy, and Adrian tells you a little more about himself with each successful advancement. 

You learn that he picked up cooking from his mother, that he took over as the family chef for the both of them because he enjoyed it more than she ever did. He says that he physically aged very quickly, which led to some humorous arguments between his parents about whether he should be treated as an adult or not, be given permission to consume wine. You learn that his mother had taught him to heal, had taken him with her on occasion to make house calls once he was old enough, that she taught him how to be compassionate while his father taught him how to be strong. 

Of course, Adrian doesn’t _say_ all that so much as he implies it, but still. You read between the lines. There’s one topic he never brings up that you are particularly interested in - whether or not he’s ever had a romantic partner - which is _purely_ out of curiosity, but you do realize that it’s a highly personal subject, and you don’t feel like you can just ask without him offering to discuss the subject first.

Still, as you sit in the armchair by the fire in the small study one evening soon after, putting the finishing touches on your blue dress while he reclines in the chaise beside you with a book in his slender hands, you find your gaze flitting to him more often than not, taking in the way the firelight dances on his skin and is trapped in his eyes. You dream about him, sometimes, when you haven’t tired yourself out enough with spellcasting. Your nightmares are vivid, still filled with night creatures and the dreaded sense of helplessness, but more often than not nowadays, they are frequented as well by his pale figure against the dark sky, cutting the monsters in half and carrying you away to the morning. He never stays for long in the dreams, and once you start casting fireballs of your own at the creatures he barely even plays a role, but you cannot deny that he is usually on your mind in some capacity.

You are, in fact, so lost in your thoughts of him as you finish the very last stitch on your now far-nicer-than-necessary dress that you don’t even notice Adrian’s eyes flickering over to you just as often from behind the pages of his book.

“Done,” you declare a little wistfully, holding the garment out in front of you and suppressing a yawn. 

From where he lounges, Adrian smiles, a little. “A commendable effort indeed, all those little stitches.”

You wave away his compliment, knowing just how many of those little stitches were dropped, bungled, or faked, but it does make you a little happy to have perhaps impressed him just a bit. 

“Will you wear it tomorrow?” he asks, tone very light, casual. 

Almost suspiciously so.

“It’ll be a bit restrictive on the spellcasting, I think,” you muse, looking at the tight fitting areas around your arms and shoulders. “At least until it’s broken in.”

“It would be a shame not to wear something you’ve put so much work into,” he says with that same smooth tone. It grates on your nerves, just for a moment, and you finally look at him only to see him avert his gaze.

“ _What_?” 

He folds the book in his lap, sits up a little straighter, a little more formally. “I… I need to venture into one of the nearby towns tomorrow morning,” he says slowly. “I thought that you might perhaps come with me. It will be cold, so that dress would suit you - suit the _weather_ just fine.”

Panic at the thought of leaving the castle drops down your stomach like a rock tossed down a dark, cold well. “Adrian-”

“We can get you more fabric, socks for the cold weather, shoes especially. I need to purchase more food anyway, it only seems sensible that you would join me.”

He gets all the words out faster than you’ve ever heard him speak, and punctuates the whole thing with a rather tense swallow. You find that you’ve gone quite stiff with what you can only describe as utter dread. You don’t want to leave the castle, the relative safety of its walls…

But then again, you really don’t want Adrian to leave you here _alone_ , and if he’s going out for food anyway, there might be no stopping him. 

And you _do_ need shoes…

“Alright,” you relent, very, _very_ softly. “On one condition.”

When Adrian answers, it is in a breathless tone. “Name it.”

“You bring the sword.”


	16. A Walk, a Lie, and a Question

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is perhaps my very favorite chapter so far. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it :)

The last time Adrian had worn his dark overcoat, he’d been on his way to kill his father. He doesn’t get cold very easily, even with the chill slowly brought about by the shifting seasons, and it isn't as though he has much of a use for wearing it in warmer months anyway. Now, however, as he stands before an old mirror wiping dust from his shoulders, the coat sits on him quite formally. Morosely. 

“Well, I suppose I _am_ in mourning,” he sighs, picking up the gray wool cloak he’s set aside for you to wear on your journey into town. From what he can tell, there are six outcroppings within reachable distance for him. He’s gone to three of them thus far for supplies which he could not find in the forest - flour to make bread, honey. Refined goods. He tended to teleport sporadically through the woods to get within a mile of civilization, walk in assuming the air of someone distinctly unimportant, and then leave as soon as possible in much the same manner. Now, however, he has you to contend with. 

Not that he minds. As he walks down the looming, empty hallways, knowing that you’ve agreed to come with him is almost a relief. He is painfully aware of how inhuman he can appear at times, even if he is careful to keep his mouth closed and his eyes cast downward. You are so very human that he rather selfishly is hoping that you’ll take away some of the unavoidable attention with your normalcy. He tells himself _that’s_ why his heartbeat picks up a little as he nears your door, not because he’s happy to have your company while braving the world, or that he’s excited to see you away from the dreary, depressing hallways that suit your increasingly rare smiles so poorly. That most certainly isn’t the reason. 

But after he knocks, and you open your door, greeting him in the fruits of your labor, every thought banishes from his mind as his eyes glide over your form. The green dress he’s so accustomed to seeing you in is nice, practical. Well made. _This_ dress, he thinks, watching you fidget a little beneath the white cloth you’ve added to cover most of your braided up hair, fits you quite well indeed.

“I got the measurements right,” you laugh, nervousness just barely restrained behind the shake to your voice. 

Adrian swallows. Nods. “Yes, you certainly did.”

He’s aware that a bit of color has rushed to his face, and he looks away, letting his hair cover his profile while he tries to regain some composure, to focus on the task at hand. _He’s taking you to town, nothing more_.

“I brought a cloak,” he says for lack of anything else. “It’s warmer than the one you used to wear when you went out. I saw frost this morning.”

You take the cloak from his outstretched hand, your fingers just barely brushing against his. “I guess a thick pair of socks will be the first thing on my list then.” You wrap the cloak around yourself, seeming small and as though something has taken all the fight out of you. Your eyes flicker down to the sword sheathed at his hip, as per your request, and the corners of your lips twitch up just a little. Good to know that you no longer fear the weapon, then. 

You let him scoop you up again, and he gives you time to settle into his grasp before taking you down to the servant’s exit. He’d brought up breakfast before either of you got formally dressed, before the sun had even risen. He wants to get into the town as soon as the market opens up so that there are the fewest number of people to run into as possible - for both your sakes.

Adrian keeps his eyes trained ahead as he walks, carrying you rather like a bride, he realizes with some irony considering your almost-fate. You cling to him tighter as he steps over the threshold, as the door seals itself behind him. 

He pretends not to notice, saying nothing on the subject, just as he suspects that you say nothing about the uptick in his heartbeat. _Surely_ , you must hear it, hammering away. The world seems to have gone silent aside from the pounding in his own ears, the birdsong and the cold wind in the trees muted and distant. 

“What are the ruins from?” you ask meekly a few awkward moments later, much to Adrian’s initial relief at having something - _anything_ to do besides stew in silence.

It is short lived, however, as he realizes that the shift in topics hasn’t exactly left him any better off. He has to think on just how much he can afford to tell you, how much he _wants_ to delve into such dreary topics so early on in the day, with so much ahead of him yet still to do.

“It was once part of the Belmont estate,” he begins softly, focusing on just taking one step at a time. “They were a clan of… rough around the edges monster hunters.”

He can’t fight the smile in his voice as he pictures Trevor in all of his vulgar, drunken glory, even if he’s equally surprised to find a feeling oddly similar to _fondness_ nestled in the recesses of his memory even still, even after everything. 

“ _Were?_ ”

“Yes. Fifteen years or so ago, the ever capricious local churches decided that the Belmonts were no better than the monsters they so avidly slayed. There was a great purge that took the Belmonts with it, or at least thoroughly banished them from this place.”

“A clan of monster hunters built their estate next to a _vampire’s_ castle?”

“The castle… was a more recent addition,” he says tersely, stepping past the treeline and into the woods. He doesn’t want to say more, doesn’t want to give you the same information that the last humans had so desperately craved: that the castle could move, once. That it might be convinced to do so again, though not without a great deal of maintenance first, and possibly the aid of a certain Speaker Magician. 

Still, he can tell you want to know more, that there are numerous questions hidden behind your pursed, thinking lips. Lips which start to open, to ask -

“It used to be able to move,” he exhales, taking a considerable leap of faith that feels rather like a weight being hauled off his chest. “My father was able to control it, jump from place to place as he saw fit.”

“What happened to make it stop?”

Adrian bites the inside of his cheek, briefly. “He died.”

“Oh.”

_Wonderful_. He’s never found himself at such a loss for words as he does in this moment. Not when Trevor had said something too idiotic to not make fun of, or when Sypha was lecturing him about something which seemed inconsequential at the time but proved to be rather important later… not even when his own father was beating him senseless. He’d always had something to say, or at the very least something to spit out to fill the silence.

_Why is it that you of all people seem to render him speechless?_

“So, did you move around a lot growing up then? In your magical, moving castle?”

He should really just teleport the both of you away and be done with it, with all the questions. But much to his own surprise, he finds he isn’t quite ready just yet. Maybe there _is_ a part of him that wants to talk of such things.

“I suppose so. We couldn’t really afford to stay in any one place for too long, lest the mobs of angry, pitchforked villagers show up. The alternative, of course, was my father losing his temper and mounting the offending townspeople on pikes…”

You both wince, and Adrian wishes very badly that he’d never been given a tongue at all. It really doesn’t seem to be doing him much good, at the moment. 

Regardless, you press on. “Was there ever a favorite place of yours to be? Any major cities you found exciting? Adventures to be had?”

Adrian chuckles softly, impressed by how easily you’d moved past a subject which had been far more treacherous a week or so ago. “I was not much for adventures,” he says. “My mother would sometimes travel to nearby towns to offer her medicinal services. We stayed in the countryside, mostly, far enough away from prying eyes that I was allowed to venture within an acre or so of the castle unaccompanied during the day. I suppose that was the one perk to my father’s reputation in Wallachia - it allowed us to be left alone while he was there to keep an eye on things, as horrid as his methods sometimes were.”

Somehow, it always seems to end up somewhere morose with Adrian. He honestly hasn’t the faintest idea how to keep a light tone if it isn’t through half-hearted insults and light barbs lobbed back and forth between consenting parties. He’s simply never needed to know how until now.

Yet _another_ shortcoming of his. 

“I used to want to travel,” you say quietly, just as Adrian is about to teleport you both away to avoid it all. “I thought that the sheep farm was going to be boring and lonely and that I was going to spend all my youth at a spinning wheel unloved and uncared for until I died an old maid.”

You fiddle with your sleeve, tugging the material down to cover where your skin is still marked from the bindings. It will fade, in time, but Adrian knows that the memories the marks carry will not. 

“The funny thing is that if someone said they’d take me anywhere in the world, I don’t know where I would have asked to go. I’ve seen maps, of course, I know my basic geography enough to tell you that Wallachia is far more east than I ever dreamed of venturing,” you continue with a sort of sad smile to your words. “But my worldview seems rather limited now. And besides, I’m not sure I want to do any more adventuring myself, once this is all over.”

A pang hits Adrian’s chest, and for an incredibly brief and foolish moment, he wonders if he’s somehow reopened an old wound there before he realizes that the feeling is internal. 

_Once this is all over…_

“Where do you think you’ll go then?” he asks, clearing his throat to rid himself of an awful rawness there. “When you’re able to walk out of the castle on your own two feet?”

He means it to be playful, joking, but like most things, the words come out coldly. 

You shift in his grasp, Caving in on yourself a little. “I haven’t the faintest idea.”

…

The market, when the both of you reach it, is already well underway. Adrian sets you down gingerly on the outskirts of the town, giving you a sturdy walking stick off the nearest tree to lean on as well as his own arm. You had both agreed that crutches would slow things down, and you need to practice walking anyway.

As you had first suggested, several pairs of thick, knitted socks are purchased first, and Adrian holds very still while you use him to balance off as you carefully slide one set over your ice-cold feet.

Next, sensibly, is the trip to the cobbler’s cabin. Adrian tries not to jump at the sound of the bell jangling over his head, and instead focuses on appearing as nondescript as possible as you step forward and are greeted by the shop owner. 

“Mornin’ miss,” he says, looking you over, no doubt trying to estimate how much money he can squeeze from your pockets. “What can I help you with? Some nice slippers, perhaps? I have just the shade to go with your lovely dress.”

You shake your head, stand a little straighter. Though, Adrian notes, you do not go far from him. “I’d like a set of boots, please,” you say with more authority in your voice than he’s heard there before. “Something sturdy, something that will last, and preferably something that’s already mostly done. I’m in a bit of a rush.”

The cobbler’s brow furrows doubtfully. “What are you planning on using something like that for, lady?”

Adrian tenses. He’s very near to snapping at the tired old fool to just give you what you asked for so that the both of you can leave all the sooner, but as he steps forward, you place a hand on his chest, pressing into him with enough force to make him halt.

“My husband and I are visiting friends in the eastern mountains,” you lie, the words stopping him more than the pressure against his sternum. “I’ve worn through my riding shoes, and I’m told the pathways are too steep and narrow for carriages.”

_Husband_ , Adrian thinks. You’ve called _him_ your husband.

And you’d lied about it so _easily_.

The cobbler stares at you doubtfully once again, but after a moment, shrugs. “I haven’t a clue what sort of friends you have in such remote, unforgiving places,” he grumbles. “But very well.”

Adrian watches as the cobbler takes your measurements, finds a mostly constructed pair of riding boots that he resizes to fit your feet. He takes in the almost overpowering scents of shoe polish, of hard leather, the tang of adhesive glue. The dozens of pairs of half-made and completed shoes strewn a little haphazardly around the place, but somehow, despite the influx of information flooding his senses, all he can think of is that one little word. _Husband_.

It feels so incredibly strange to hear himself referred to as such so convincingly that he isn’t aware of your sudden stiffness as you turn in your newly booted feet to tug at his sleeve.

“Darling,” you say, looking rather sheepishly towards the cobbler’s extended hand. 

Adrian blinks, and then reaches down into a deep pocket to fish out the coins doubtlessly expected of him.

“Pleasure doing business with you,” the cobbler says, staring at the money as if he’s been grossly overpaid. 

Perhaps he has been.

Adrian hears the tin bell ding above his head again as you gingerly lead him away from the building and back into the sunlight. He’s vaguely aware of how limp his hand is in yours, but somehow, you don’t drop it. You don’t so much as glance back at him until you’re several paces further down the market path. 

“Thank you for the shoes,” you say, studying the pebbles ahead of you. “And the socks. And everything else. I’m not really sure how I’m going to pay you back for them all.”

Had Adrian just bought Trevor a new pair of boots, he’d be shooting off some barb about working him like a dog to pay off the debts, or if Sypha had needed shoes he’d probably half-jokingly tell her to null the cost if she promised to throw them at Trevor’s head whenever she got the chance. Then again, neither of them were likely to have thanked him much for the action.

As such, he can’t even begin to think of what to say to _you_.

“The castle is filled with gold coins,” he mutters, keeping his head down. “This is nothing, do not dwell on it further.”

You keep walking, but the subject seems far from over. “It’s _not_ nothing, though,” you protest after an elderly woman who seems to be intent on coughing out a lung passes out of earshot. “We don’t need to have this conversation now, but-”

“Then let’s not,” Adrian says, gripping your hand imploringly. 

“But I do feel like I owe you. For a lot of things. Saving my life twice is only the top of a very long list.”

“I didn’t realize you were keeping tabs,” he manages, your eyes finally meeting.

You huff a little laugh through your nose, and pull him just a bit closer. “Like I’ve said before, you are kind. _Very_ kind, if you’re just willing to throw money away on me like this.” You kick your bad ankle to the side, referencing the overpaid for boots. “I don’t want to take advantage of that. Of you.”

His eyes search between the both of yours, trying to see through whatever lie you might be spinning, expertly, just like you’d done for the cobbler. 

But when he sees nothing but honesty in your gaze, his cold heart thaws just a little more. 

“You want to start paying off some of that debt then?” he jokes, giving you his arm and trying to force something akin to normalcy into his twisting, fluttering stomach.

You latch onto him as if the action is a part of you. “Most definitely.”

“Work some of your charm on the vendors. You’re far better at talking to them than I.”

You merely blink at him once before a bit of laughter bubbles up the back of your throat, a rare sound, but one Adrian is beginning to cherish more than birdsong at dawn. “I’m afraid your standard of what constitutes good people skills must be incredibly low if you think that I’m any sort of example in the matter.” You look over the marketplace just beginning to reach peak bustle. Your eyes snag on a shock of bright red, and you turn back, smiling. “But in any case, I’ll see if I can bargain our way into some extra tomatoes.”

... 

You are very good with people, Adrian finds. Not that he’d really expected anything less - after all, you’d managed to put up with him the past three and a half weeks, longer than anyone else ever had aside from his parents. 

_Has it really been three weeks?_ He thinks to himself as the both of you leave the market, a satchel of carefully wrapped food slung over his shoulder.

Regardless, he’s happy to return to the cover of the trees - there were a few glances that had lingered on him too long, but as abrupt as the false marriage had felt when you first invented it, Adrian had to admit that idea did grow on him, a little. Whenever a vendor started asking too many questions, started getting too nosy about where you’d come from and what you wanted so much cheese for, you’d simply smiled, batted your eyelashes, and said something endearing in his general direction, dispelling all suspicion almost instantly. It also certainly helped that the vendors you tended to gravitate towards were stern-looking women who seemed to be secret romantics as opposed to crotchety old men, he was sure, but then again, the story had worked on the cobbler…

The silence between you is easy on the way out of town, for the most part. You’d awoken earlier than you tended to, and even Adrian himself was beginning to feel a little run down after all the social interaction. It had been more time spent amongst so many people than he’d had perhaps ever before, and he’d barely even uttered a word to anyone but you the entire time. 

Maybe _he_ is the one who needs to get out of the castle more often. 

_A silly thought_ , he scoffs, though it does not leave him. 

“Do you think we can skip the doctoring today?” you ask with a yawn as soon as he’s put you carefully down post-teleportation onto the soft forest floor.

“I think that would be wise,” he agrees. “I have to put all of this away anyhow.”

“Where do you keep all your food?” you ask suddenly. “It can’t possibly all fit in the cold kitchen box.”

_Cold kitchen box?_

“There’s a storeroom below the kitchen,” Adrian says as the castle comes into view beyond the trees. “It’s useful for housing preserves and keeping things fresh long term, but otherwise is rather out of the way.”

“Do you need any help?” 

Adrian looks at you through the side of his eyes. “Are you offering it?”

You shrug. “The sooner the food is put away, the sooner the both of us can take a nap.”

As tired as Adrian is, he isn’t sure if he can stomach a nap at the moment, not with all the thoughts racing around his head spurred on by the way you look at him, the way you called him _husband_.

“You need not worry about it,” he says, brushing you gently aside and stalking forward. 

He’s only aware that you’ve stopped walking when he realizes that your footsteps have grown silent. His first thought is of concern, of course, as he’s managed to make it several paces ahead without turning back, but when he does, when he sees your face, he really wishes he’d never turned back at all.

Your hands clasp together tightly, as if they are cold. Perhaps they are, in this weather. Adrian wouldn’t rightly be able to tell himself. “Is everything alright?” you ask somewhat timidly. “It’s just… you seem a little… distant.”

After a moment of hesitation, he steps back to you, slowly, looking anywhere but at your face. “Everything is fine,” he says, abhorring the way his mouth says the lines, the lie. “I’m merely worn out. The market was… more crowded than I’m used to.”

A small smile plays upon your lips, and you take a careful, slightly graceless step forward. “All the more reason for me to help put things away.”

You link your arm through his, holding on a little more tightly than Adrian expects, and begin to lead him back to the castle, leaning on him for support. He quickly realizes how much pain your ankle is likely causing you after having walked on it for such a long time, especially in stiff, unbroken boots, and he does his best to carry your weight and get you inside as quickly as possible, all the while feeling rather guilty indeed for not having realized such a thing sooner. 

Neither of you say much of importance until reaching the storage cellar, a damp, cold place with many shelves that is not dissimilar from the dungeons further down the subterranean corridors, the dungeons that he will never bring you to.

You ask him how he wants to organize things, and after a quick explanation which is mostly “however you see fit, really,” the both of you go about placing cheese and flour neatly on the shelves. It’s such a normal thing, such a _domestic_ act, that for the briefest moment, Adrian imagines that he _could_ be your husband. The idea that you would choose to stay here willingly, tying yourself to him and this gloomy castle seems as far fetched as ever, but as he watches you shelve items, your back to him and a subtle ease to your motions, he can’t help but wonder if you’ve maybe thought something similar, if that’s where the ruse had stemmed from in the first place.

Somehow, it suddenly seems vitally important to know.

“What made you tell them all that we were married?” he asks, abruptly.

Your hand falters on the jar of jam you’re placing near your eye level, but you set it down. Reach for the next item. Carry on.

“It seemed to be the most believable explanation,” you say, evenly, focusing on your tasks. “Why else would a man and a woman be traveling together, buying domestic things?”

Admittedly, that does make sense. Adrian briefly wonders if Trevor and Sypha, wherever they are, use much the same alibi…

“I just thought that… perhaps with your background, marriage would be something you’d want to avoid.”

He rearranges a few bottles of dust covered wine.

You fidget. “I don’t want to be _forced_ into one, certainly,” you say softly. “But… I’m not opposed to the idea. With the right person. Though admittedly, I haven’t met many people that I would consider ‘right.’”

“Have you… been with someone… before?”

_Why is he asking this? Why does he care?_

You’re quiet for long enough that Adrian dares to glance over his shoulder at you. You’ve turned so that you now face him, but your arms are crossed over your chest, and as you stare at a spot on the floor, a darkness passes into your eyes. 

It’s a look he himself has worn all too often. 

_Why did he even have to ask?_

“You don’t have to-”

“I almost was,” you say, cutting him off. There’s a harshness to your voice he’s not heard before, and he very wisely decides to keep his mouth shut because of it. “Before the men came to take me away… there was someone. He worked on a farm down the road and talked to me at the marketplace. He seemed nice, and interested, and like I said, I was afraid of dying an old maid, so I let him talk to me. Come around. He knew he was going to be my first, if I ever let it get to that point.”

The air seems to have left Adrian’s lungs when he next speaks. “And?”

You scowl, the grip on your arms tightening. “And when I stalled for too long to bring him into my bed, the men who took me paid him two copper coins to find out if I was a virgin. If I was worth the effort, the higher price when they eventually sold me. He watched as I was dragged away like he didn’t even care.”

Adrian just stares at you in shocked horror, truly unable to think of anything to say. 

“So no, I’ve not been with anyone. Apparently two copper coins was a greater sum than my worth as a partner.” You kick at the floor, with boots that had cost _far_ more than the insultingly meager price of your freedom. Then you look up at him. “You?”

If he regretted asking the question before, he’s utterly remorseful now. His heartbeat picks up again, pounding in his ears, even though yours remains almost deathly calm. He’s done his best not to think of what had happened before the betrayal, before he’d been strung up and made so awfully vulnerable. How, for a few blessed though incredibly confused moments before it all went to hell, he’d been _happy_ , how it was the only moment of happiness he’d had in a very long time. He can barely let himself think that, let alone speak it. 

With a grimace, he manages a nod, wishing very much that he could truthfully shake his head no, purge himself of the memory, of the feel of them on his skin. 

The feeling of killing them, of _mounting_ them.

He needs to sit, to process - or he needs to just fly away, hit something. Do _anything_ else but deal with this memory, not here, not now.

Not ever.

You look at him, half expectantly, waiting for him to share as much as you just have.

_But he can’t_.

And suddenly, he realizes very clearly, that as secretly fun as pretending to be married was, as nice as the very domestic act of stocking up preserves has been, Adrian cannot offer you that life. He cannot drag you down into his murky depths of misery and undealt with trauma, placing some lost, forlorn hope of his own salvation on your shoulders that have already suffered so many heavy burdens. He cannot lie next to you in a shared marriage bed and sleep, for he knows that the second you try to touch him, he will splay like a caged animal, snarling and wild and so very afraid that he might end up hurting you, clawing at you. The image of his sword - the very sword still on his hip - glimmering in the candlelight as it slices _your_ throat and leaves you to die in his scarred, shaking arms douses any desire to have you like that the very second that the carnal thought of _pleasure_ enters his mind. 

Not to mention the image of _you_ skewered on a pike, telling all other nice, crushingly kind women with soft glances and gentle touches to stay far, _far_ away. From him, from the danger that he possesses, the threat. 

_Alucard_. Not so much the opposite of his father, in the end. Driven by different motives, perhaps, but the path to monstrosity is so very near to him now, so very apparent. 

In worry, you call his name, his very human name. 

It doesn’t suit him. It can’t.

Alucard has done many things out of fear, things he regrets. His attempts to draw Sypha away from Trevor came from a fear of loneliness, his patricide from fear of what his father would do if left unchecked. Letting Taka and Sumi into his home - the fear of abandonment, and killing them was the fear of death, funnily enough considering how often he’s yearned for it since. 

As he mutters some apology to you, flees the storage room and bursts forth into the labyrinthine castle beyond, he realizes with a sense of utter dread that there is yet another fear driving his actions, a fear spurred on by the abrupt realization that despite all the evidence and the logic and the reasoning pointing against it, he truly _wants_ you.

And as Alucard flees, as he once again starts his slow descent into madness, _that_ thought, that _fear…_

_It terrifies him._


	17. The Makings of a Tomb

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh look, it's a long one.   
> I went through season 2 episode 9 with an absurd amount of scrutiny for the first half of this chapter. Every physical hit against Alucard is now burned into my memory forever, as I had to watch each happen at least thrice to get the proper layout of things.  
> Enjoy :.)

You stand in the cellar for a very long time, something painful sitting deep within your chest both at your recollection and at Adrian’s sudden departure. You aren’t really sure what upsets you more - the fact that he’d run away from you and your problems, or that he didn’t even care enough to tell you any of his in the same regard, because _obviously_ he has some. 

Perhaps it had been a foolish idea, to play at being married. You’d done it more than just for convenience, of course, but after the way Adrian’s stormed out, you aren’t really sure that you’ll be admitting that sentiment to him - let alone yourself - anytime soon. You aren’t really sure what you’ll be doing. 

You don’t want to stay in a damp, cold cellar for longer than you need to, however, and you hike up your skirt in one hand and start loading ingredients into the makeshift pouch you create with the other. 

_You need something to do_ , you think as you make your way to the kitchen. Something with which to busy your hands. Whenever you’d had a problem back on your sheep farm, you would spin thread or weave cloth. It’s almost soothing, to fall into something so familiar, so repetitive. You could, at one point, make expertly spun yarn in your sleep.

It isn’t weaving, isn’t quite as familiar, but with the ingredients you have, you decide to bake. It’s a simple recipe, one you’ve made countless times in the cold winter months when supplies ran low but you wanted to have some sort of treat to cheer you up in the murky world. Perhaps it’s the bleakness of the day or the mood that reminds you of them, but regardless, your hands get to work mixing and measuring ingredients while your mind wanders aimlessly. 

_What did you say to scare him off?_

You add a pinch of salt. 

_Will you see him again tonight or are you to be left alone to climb up all those damn stairs on your healing ankle?_

Milk. One cup. Before it spoils.

_What had been so wrong about pretending to be married? What offended him about that?_

_Why had it felt… natural to you?_

Butter, some sugar (a delicacy, in these days.)

_Why do you miss him so much?_

You dump a generous amount of cinnamon into the mix (another rarity), and you tell yourself that the watering of your eyes, the tightness of your throat, all has to do with the spice traveling through the air. Not your emotions, not your very real, very painful jumble of thoughts that don’t seem to end or make much sense without a way to verbalize it all or write them down.

You’ve watched Adrian start the oven enough times to know how it works - as far as science-addled things in the castle go, the stove is thankfully rather traditional with its wood burning capabilities. You partition your freshly made dough into several circles on what you think is a baking sheet which has almost certainly never been used before, and slide it into the metal box once it seems hot enough. Tired of standing, and just feeling rather worn down in general, you bring up a chair from the table and sit it in front of the warm oven, bringing your heels to rest on the edge of the seat and tucking your arms around your legs. Sitting and waiting is always the hardest part of baking cookies, you find. If this were your house, you’d be cleaning now, during this lull. If you had any more energy, perhaps you still would be. 

But you are lacking it at present, and so you don’t.

The kitchen smells like cinnamon when you are finished. It doesn’t take long, realistically, but it feels as though you’ve been sitting for quite some time when you finally take the shortbread cookies from the oven. A few are just a tad burned around the edges, but overall, not bad. 

You stare at them morosely, realizing that it can’t be any later than two in the afternoon. You have the rest of the day to sit around and mope, and you’ve already had more than your fair share of moping about. Tired though you are, you really don’t feel like you can sleep with all the worry in your head. 

Across the kitchen, the two makeshift dolls collecting dust stare back at you, and you wonder for at least the second time since arriving in the castle what their stories are. Who had made them, if they are, perhaps, the result of some small effort to be less lonely. If they had helped in that task. 

They don’t seem to be helping you, in any case, and having devoured your fill of cookies, you wrap the remainder in a clean cloth before placing them on a nearby shelf for safekeeping and setting off in search of yet another distraction, taking the crutches from where they stand near the kitchen doorway, their customary spot now that you don’t need them to get around your room. 

You try the study first, the small one with the chaise and the armchair by the ashen fireplace. _Someone will need to clean that_ , you think, grabbing a book on botany and plopping down to read it. You wonder if the castle is somehow self-cleaning. Whether it be by Adrian’s work clearing away the debris or by some magical enchantment which allows the castle to heal itself, the place had become tidier since you’d arrived, somewhat. It had certainly become less intimidating as well, though you hardly think that has anything to with the castle itself. As you turn the pages of the book, staring right through the inked drawings of forget-me-not and foxglove, you muse on how the castle magic still functions even after the death of Dracula - its enchanter. If the almost-sentience has transferred to Adrian because of his shared blood or if the spells are strong enough to remain without a master, at least for a time before eventually wearing off. 

You realize that there is a great deal that you don’t know about the castle around the same time as you figure out that books aren’t currently capable of holding your attention whatsoever. You can’t cast magic in the ballroom without Adrian - or, you suppose that you _can_ , the idea just isn’t nearly as appealing when you don’t get to hear how his favorite color is the green of soft grass or that his favorite season is, rather poetically, autumn because the occasional overcast and tolerably warm days meant that his parents were able to take walks together outside during sunup. You’re rather glad that you had made such a stipulation in your initial agreement to lessons - with all the frequent mentions of them, you don’t think Adrian’s ever really had the chance to talk about his parents, or to mourn them. Asking him for casual information like that is almost akin to giving him permission to talk about anything in his past that he wants to remember. You hope that he knows you won’t use it against him, that the light, seemingly meaningless secrets with hidden weight shan’t go beyond your lips, that if he wants to trust you with bigger secrets - _darker_ secrets, that he can, because truthfully, despite you having no one to tell of such things, you wouldn’t do so even if you did. 

And maybe, Adrian _doesn’t_ know that. Maybe he’s afraid that you’ll reject him, leave. Run away. Even though you haven’t thus far, even with the threat of night creatures and dead lawn ornaments that await every venture out. It does dawn on you, for a moment, that the white clothes of said lawn ornaments is suspiciously like that which Adrian has loaned to you for sleeping, and despite yourself and your determination to stay, to _help_ and to _trust_ , a slight tremor runs down your spine. 

You decide to get up. To move. Taking the crutches, you leave the study and start wandering around the downstairs hallways which flank the staircase. Most of the doors that you try are locked, whether by key or by magic you know not. You make it as far as the familiar (unlocked) ballroom before deciding that there are probably more interesting places to explore upstairs, seeing as so much of the castle’s grandeur comes from the many floors stacked impossibly upon each other. Getting up the grand staircase proves to be less daunting, if not more tedious, than expected, and soon enough you’ve made it a floor up. Instead of turning left and making your way to the living quarters you’ve grown so familiar with, you go straight, veering right. The hallways are clean, but you see wounds in the walls, gashes and burns that seem to denote a fight of some kind - or perhaps many. 

In all the little confessions Adrian has given to you, he’s not mentioned much on _how_ his father had died, or even where the event had occurred. Just that Adrian had done it two or so months prior to your arrival at the palace. You assumed somewhere in the back of your thoughts that it must have happened in the castle to have caused such damages - for one thing Adrian did mention was how powerful his father had been. Until now, however, you hadn’t really given it much thought. 

There is a clear path of carnage, though, now that you’re looking for it. It dies down a bit as you go along the dark corridors lit by candle sconces you suspect never fully burn out, but as you turn a corner, a particularly jagged gash in a wall reminds you that you’re on the right path. 

Taking a turn to your left, you spot a grand set of doors left slightly ajar. Beyond it is a room of equal grandeur to the massive entry hall, though somehow it seems older, less refined. There are no elegant carvings on the stone pillars flanking a walkway, no gaudy tapestries or dressings other than a bloodstaind, red runner. Nothing to take away from the throne sitting on a dais, the spiraling stairs behind it also covered in dark red stains. 

Perhaps it's knowing that there is nothing left of the battle that spurs you on. Nothing other than the marks left on the stone. In all your time in the castle, you’ve not seen any bodies or belongings scattered about, and it seems likely that Adrian would have disposed of those before they started rotting. At least, you hope so. 

As you trail the long pathway to the throne, running your fingers along it’s gilded yet relatively plain surface, you wonder how many of the attackers - for there clearly _had_ been many - were human. How many were vampires or night creatures or something else? You aren’t sure what happens to vampires in death. You assume that they just collapse and die like humans, but that too is a subject on which Adrian has proven to be rather tight-lipped. You then wonder if somewhere in the palace, Dracula has a tomb. 

_Do vampires sleep in coffins?_

_Does Adrian?_

You make your way up the spiral staircase, another slow endeavor on the crutches especially in such narrow confines, though they prevent your ankle from getting worn out. 

When you exit the apparent throne room after walking down another set of stairs, you are left in different hallway which is nearly identical to the ones you’ve walked through previously, though this one is considerably more damaged. There are scorch marks surrounded by shreds of tapestries, gashes in the walls where swords missed their mark. There is also a crushing dent in the ground outside the door of what looks to be yet another study with a shattered mirror sitting in the corner, but the trail leads on, and so you do not linger, despite this being the first mirror you've ever seen in the entire palace.

At the end of the hallway there is a massive, round tunnel that does not seem to have been in the original castle plans. The stone is jagged, rough, and somehow, _melted_. It looks like it was made by some great animal burrowing a den, though you suspect that the thing that caused such devastation is distinctly not of this natural world. Magic, then, must be the answer. 

You press your hand against the wall, feeling for any structural weakness. The hole continues through several shattered rooms, shaping a clear, long path forward. 

It occurs to you briefly that you should perhaps stop, turn back. Wait for Adrian to come sniffing around and ask him to lead you through the carnage. But then again, you don’t know if he’d agree - if seeing all this would be too much for him or if he would refuse to show you for fear it would be too much for you to handle. Perhaps he’d feel obligated to explain things, and seeing how reluctant he is to discuss vampire physiology or how to hunt and kill his kind - the only gap in the knowledge he has thus far provided you with - you get the sense that, should you ever want to know what happened that day, now is the time to press forward. If Adrian really doesn’t want you snooping, he can come and get you himself. After all, he can hear your heartbeat, right?

It’s harder to climb through the walls than you hoped it would be. Nothing remains in the corridor of what once existed, no furniture or books or anything else discernible lies in its wake. But the ground is uneven, and every so often there is a ridge you have to climb over where a thick wall once stood. The corridor is cold and impossibly dark as well, and while you are glad for your long sleeved dress, you long for your cloak now hanging by the servant’s door. You hear your shuffling footsteps echoing on the dark stone around you, the sound of your own breathing turning into something else, something more. Frightening, even. 

It is almost a relief when you enter the library, though it too is in an incredible state of disarray. There are multiple levels to it, and on the outside, you suspect it is likely to be one of the many castle towers jutting out into the Wallachian landscape, though there are no windows to confirm your theory. The different levels suspended on balconies are splintered, and by craning your neck up, you see that there is yet another gaping hole in the ceiling, though this one is considerably less large and distinctly less uniform than the tunnel you’ve just crawled through. Tendrils of light pour down, and you wonder where exactly they come from. Clearly, that is where the fight continued, but you yourself have no way of getting up there. 

You suddenly wish very much that Adrian had been teaching some sort of levitation spell. Though, if you were proficient in such a thing, it would theoretically cut out all need of his to carry you up and down the stairs himself, and you find that you don’t necessarily want that occurrence to cease its frequency. 

You make your way down to the library floor, testing the wooden steps and banisters as you go. There had been a staircase to the left of the tunnel you arrived in, and should you find no other means of getting up a level on the other side of the library door, you suppose you can retrace your steps, loathe as you are to go into that tunnel again.

Luckily enough, you find _another_ set of double story stairs - a sight which both lifts your spirits of adventure and crushes your physical resolve - and you climb it too, finding yourself in a hallway much smaller and less ornate than those you have walked through thus far. You come to a place where a door has been ripped off its hinges by some great force, and peering inside, you find a archival study with enormously tall windows. A hole in the floor beyond confirms that this is where the fight led, and more damage to the walls of the hallway you came from continues to chronicle the fight.

“Would it have killed them to use doors instead?” you mutter, climbing over and around broken gaps. You pass through a bedroom smaller than yours but similar and then what seems to be a dining hall. What use these places must have actually held at any point in their history is beyond you. You can’t imagine what a castle of this size could ever be used for besides housing an army, and even then, you suspect that much of the castle would still be empty. It truly is enormous, and nowhere is there a greater indicator of its size than the antechamber you find yourself stumbling across when the rooms have run out. 

It is a huge, gaping chasm in the heart of the castle with one vast walkway slicing through it led to by smaller bridges in the same style. You cannot see the ceiling from where you stand, though the monstrous shapes of melted metal gears stick out as haunting silhouettes that leer at you from above. They are bent out of shape enough that you know they shan’t move again, though what purpose they ever held is beyond you. You have a slight suspicion that this might have been what Adrian was referring to earlier during your walk in the woods - a conversation which seems like a lifetime ago now - that this room was what caused the castle to move. 

You timidly walk in a very straight line to the center isle punctuated on one end by a shattered window that lets in cold fall air, trying your best not to look down into the gaping caverns beneath you.

Nearby, there is another hole blown into the wall, though the path leading to it has been severely damaged. More dents in stone leave you wondering just what or rather, who had caused such massive dents. Surely the holes and dents everywhere had to have been the work of magical explosions or impacts. No person was strong enough to do such things with their bare hands or bodies.

Right?

Taking a breath and praying that the floor holds beneath your light step, you practically fly over the cracking stone, hearing a few pebbles fall beneath you, but otherwise keeping the walkway intact, much to your relief. Though, you know that should you wish to return the way you’ve come, you’ll need even more caution to make it across again. 

You realize just how far you’ve walked at that moment, and how, if you want to go back to the parts of the castle you know and are familiar with, you’ll have to walk all the way back.

The notion is a harrowing one, and though you continue to walk forward, aiming for the gap in the wall, you can’t help but fear it is a task you are not yet ready for. The allure of a mystery solved has goaded you forward, onward. Foolishly, you haven’t even considered that you need to make the journey back until now, and your footsteps slow. Should you turn back?

 _See_ where this all leads, a little voice says in your head. _See if you find more - if you find where Dracula died. Explore, satisfy your curiosity._

A terrible idea, really. Who knows what you’ll stumble upon in the hallways beyond, what horrors - what _bodies_.

And yet, compelled by some force stronger than your logic, you press onward. _Just a bit more, just a bit closer. You’re so very close_.

Another hallway, another hole in the wall. 

But this time, you stop dead in your tracks. 

The room beyond the hole is just another bedchamber on first inspection, damaged by the fight. But while there is an entry wound, there is no exit. The fight ended there. The floor is stained, a rug is burned to only the faintest remnants of blue thread. Light from the window to the left of the door slowly trickles in, and a faint glimmer of silver catches your eye amidst the wreckage, right next to a bloody white sheet which seems to have been discarded a few feet beside it. 

The bed on the wall facing you is missing a good portion of its ornately carved frame, and as such, you can see clearly past the mattress, onto the dark figure with blond hair sitting on the floor hunched against the side of it in shadow, head in hands.

Adrian.

 _Come and see_.

If he’s heard you approach thus far, he makes no motion to greet you, no indication that he knows of your presence. Still, you make your steps forward as silent as you can, not wanting to startle him from this moment both for his sake and for yours. Not because you fear what he might do when he sees you, but because you don’t want him to disappear, to slip back under a mask of indifference, of a carefully stone-carved face which doesn’t move. You want to see him smile, laugh. _Really_ laugh. Cry, even, if it is what he needs. His most genuine self when not on display for others at a town market. 

You’ve made it to the hole without being noticed, finding such a thing to be strange, wondering if something is wrong since he cannot sense your presence so near. But when you clear your throat to utter his name, he stiffens suddenly, bristling at the shoulders like a cat. 

“Adrian?”

A tense moment where his hands fist at his hair more tightly, where he doesn’t look at you.

“ _Don’t call me that_ ,” he hisses. You think his voice sounds strange - thicker, somehow. 

You swallow, step forward. “And why not? It’s your name, isn’t it?”

He turns away, angling towards the wall behind him and not at you. Light glints on the hilt of the sword resting beside him against the bed, and while it gives you slight pause, it doesn’t deter you. Not fully. 

You hear a resigned, if not a shaking, breath. “No one has called me that for a very long time. It is entirely too human for what I am,” he spits. “Whether or not you see it.”

You’ve reached the middle of the room now, though you keep to the edges, away from the rug and the sheet and what you see to be a thick, silver ring. There are other things in the room, portraits, drawings. Desks. Smaller furniture, toy bins -

 _The room of a child_ , you realize with a start. _Adrian’s_. Because who else’s could it possibly be? 

And if the fight had ended here, if this is where he comes to sulk even now…

It is a tomb then, also. 

“Like I said before,” you begin, forcing your eyes back to Adrian and trying to keep your voice steady. For both your sakes. “I think it suits you. Though if you prefer Alucard I’m happy to return to it.”

He scoffs, shakes his head. “You are too obliging.”

“Like how you once said I’m too kind?”

“You _are_.”

You sigh, taking a few steps closer. He seems to shrink away, and you take your crutches and lean them against the wall, sinking down yourself to get closer to his level. You don’t make for him yet, though. He still does not look at you. 

“I am only kind and obliging because you are the same way with me,” you say, trying to sound casual. “I meant what I said at the market. I owe you.”

He snarls. “You owe me nothing. Not for the shoes, or the food, or for your innocent life. Certainly not for any _kindness_ you think I’ve shown you in the process.”

“Let me express my gratitude for it nonetheless.”

He shakes his head. “Can’t you see I don’t even deserve _that?_ ”

You can’t help but frown, crawl a little closer. “You do deserve it. You’ve saved my life twice and-”

“One life doesn’t make up for the countless others I’ve taken,” he says with deadly calm. “You have no idea of the things I’ve done, of what I am. At first I thought it was a blessing that you didn’t look at me with fear, that you didn’t know. Now, however… I cannot allow you to say such things blindly. ” His head tilts up, and red-rimmed eyes peer at you coldly from behind tendrils of gold hair. You meet them unfaltering, daring to lean forward, to hold his gaze.

“Then tell me,” you say, evenly. “Whatever it is that you’ve done, you can tell me.”

He only laughs, a hollow, dark sound deep in his chest as he turns his head away once more. “No. Some things are too terrible even for you to stomach.”

Your chin juts out, arms cross. “Try me.”

Perhaps it’s the mocking tone in your voice, the edge. The refusal to give into his stubborn self-loathing. The man you know is gentle, caring. Woefully remorseful. You cannot imagine him to have done things without reason, to have killed or murdered or whatever it is that he thinks is so horrible, yet somehow, in those two words, you’re daring him to prove you wrong. To shatter the good image you have of him with his dark secrets, his words like knives. 

_Show me what you really are then, if it’s so terrible. Tell me what I’m getting myself into._

Whatever it is, Adrian looks up with an anger in his eyes you've never seen. Not frightening anger, but something desperate, as if it’s the only thing he can hold onto without breaking apart himself, the only thing keeping him together. 

“I did nothing to stop my mother’s death,” he says lowly. “I did nothing as my father schemed his revenge for a year, and I _slept_ while he wrecked carnage upon innocents purely because of their race. I let him commit genocide for months before I stopped him, and even then, I only achieved that by endangering two other humans whom I dared to consider _friends_ in the process. There are thousands of lives on my conscience for his actions alone, actions which I did not try hard enough to stop, stave off.”

He takes a sharp breath, before continuing. You make no move to interrupt, or good or bad. 

“A month later, the two you see on the front steps came snooping around, looking for answers, for retribution for the crimes committed against them in their lifetime by vampires. They approached me as friends, and I loved them like friends.”

Adrian has, if possible, gone paler than usual.

“They died, by my hand, in my bed, after I’d _fucked_ them.”

You lose your voice for a moment, processing. 

Admittedly, that _is_ worse than you’d expected. You knew he’d killed them, that he said he’d had no choice…

There must be more, a reason. 

There _has_ to be.

“You fucked them, or they fucked you?”

Adrian fixes you with a glare that could skin you alive if you were even an ounce less bold. “What does it matter?”

You lean forward, propping yourself on your palms. “I refuse to believe that you just killed them out of cold blood.”

“Is it so hard to believe? Do you not fear the same fate? An undeserved death by my hands, my blade?”

You study him for a long while, searching the wetness in his eyes as they flit between the two of yours, the furrowed brow and pressed together lips. The fangs behind them.

The last time you’d looked at his mouth like that, you’d wanted to kiss him. You’d distracted yourself by trailing lower, running fingers over his lattice-like scars…  
The same you’d seen hiding between patches of wolf fur in the ballroom afterwards.

 _They tricked me, found me… vulnerable. Restrained me_ , he’d said. 

_I have no one_.

Somehow, the pieces seem to click. The stiffness to his body when held against yours, the strangeness of being called “husband.” The way he’d stormed off after you mentioned how the village boy sold you out, how you were going to be sold and fucked and-

“They came onto you,” you breathe, reading the answer in his panicked glance, the way he shakes his head. “They came onto you, they fucked you, and then they tried to kill you.”

Those eyes, those horrified, morose eyes, glisten just a little more. He does not move. His lips part as if he cannot breathe, cannot speak. 

And very slowly, with a sound like a whimper, he nods. Tears fall down marble cheeks, cracking the stone and ruining the facade. 

Adrian. Broken, abused, and horrendously sad. 

But not alone. 

_Never_.

His hands come up to cover his face, fist his hair again, but you reach him before he can hide away. Your fingers wrap gently around his wrists, though you regret the action as soon as he flinches back, fixing you with a look of utter panic. 

You retract your hands, keeping them palm up. You are practically in his lap though, at this point, so it isn’t as if you plan to go far. 

“You cannot blame yourself, you say, trying to be soothing. Trying to cover up the way your voice quivers and heart _aches_ for him, to hold him, to take his sadness. 

“I should have known,” he gasps, chest heaving. “I should have seen, tried harder and been less selfish. They were confused, desperate-” he cuts himself off, staring pointedly at the floor in front of him as if it is an effort to hold onto his guilt.

“And you weren’t?”

He blinks. 

“You’d just killed your father, lost your mother. Had this whole place filled with their memories alone. It's no wonder you didn’t see through them. You’re not a fool, Adrian - I’m sure they were very kind, very convincing.”

“That doesn’t mean I had to let them fuck me,” he sneers. It is an awful sound, and you hope very much never to hear that tone to his voice again after all this. “I’m strong enough to have pushed them off. I didn’t have to give in to my own petty desires. I didn’t have to prove them right about their hatred of my kind and kill them anyway.”

“They didn’t have to come onto you, or try to kill you,” you counter. 

“They shouldn’t have died for their lapse in judgement.”

You feel something hot rising in your stomach. _Why can’t he just see that this isn’t his fault?_ “Would you have rather they succeeded then? Just lay there and let them kill you?”

“You try living alone with your sins of patricide for a month and tell me how you’d feel!” he cries, pushing you away. His back hunches to you, and he faces the wall to his left. One hand covers his eyes, the other just barely holds him up. 

“Adrian-”

“Why haven’t you left yet?” he says sharply. “You don’t belong here, in this hell alongside me, worrying about night creatures and vampires and… suffering. Suffocating.”

“I can’t let you face all that alone, can I?”

“That’s hardly been a problem for anyone else,” he scoffs.

Again, you frown, and you start trying to weasel your way around Adrian, to get him to look at you. You crawl around him, but he turns the other way. You reach for his face, his shoulder, _anything_.

And a moment later, you are rewarded for your determined grasps and outstretched arms by being pinned against the floor in a single, swift motion, rendered speechless more out of surprise than out of the impact of your back against the hard surface. 

His vice like grip is wrapped around your wrists, bolting your hands in place while Adrian kneels over you, high enough so as not to touch his hips to yours, hair falling over his shoulders with the rise and fall of each shallow breath. 

“I am dangerous,” he whispers, deathly quiet. “The people who get too close to me tend to die sooner or later. Do not fall into that category, that trap.”

Hurt shines in your own eyes at that coldness, and it makes you rash. Bold. Desperate. 

“You won’t kill me,” you say, hoarse but sure. “You won’t hurt me.”

His eyes narrow at you. “That’s rather the problem, isn’t it,” he growls, though his hands do release your wrists, slightly. You don’t make to shove him off, however, instead staring up at him with what you desperately hope still reads as defiance. 

“What do you mean?”

He grimaces, looks away. But he does not move either. “I get close to someone,” he starts, softly. “And they are burned at a stake. Stabbed through the heart by my hand. They leave, deciding it better to be rid of me the first chance they get. They fall into my bed and have their necks slit open. Five out of six try to kill me at one point or another, and each time, I get worse at defending myself.”

You swallow. “Adrian, I will never attack you. You don’t need to defend yourself from me-”

“ _I know_ ,” he cries, leaning down a little lower, bending his strong, sinewy arms to get closer to you, his eyes shut. “This isn’t about you - I don’t fear you, distrust you. Not like I once did.”

Just when you think he’s gotten close enough to kiss, to touch, he pulls back with a hiss, releasing your wrists and rolling to the right to end up in his starting position leaning against the bed, all show of staged danger stowed away for the moment. 

“This is about _me_ , the threat I _do_ pose to you, even if you can't see it. I…” He bites his tongue, shakes his head. 

“Say it,” you urge, you beg. You need to know if he feels it too, that small connection like an igniting flame, even amongst everything else. 

You sit up, start to make for him. This time, he does not push you away, not as you part his tensed arms and insert yourself between them, not as you bring your hands to the back of his head and cradle him shaking and prone into the crook of your neck. 

“I’m… I’m so afraid to hurt you,” he mutters, the sound barely audible. You’re aware of how loosely he holds you back, how the iron grip that had pinned your wrists down now ghosts feather-light along your shoulders, hesitating.

“But you won’t.”

“I won’t _want_ to,” he says, clearly so as not to leave any doubt in your mind. “I would never _want_ to hurt you. But I might.”

“And _if_ that happens, I’ll forgive you.”

“Not if you’re dead you won’t.”

“Bold of you to assume that I won’t take up haunting you just to prove you wrong on that front.”

It’s the softest thing, but for a moment, you swear he laughs a little. 

“Ghosts aren’t real, though... I appreciate the sentiment. If anyone is going to be haunted, it _would_ be me. I suppose in some ways I already am.”

“Memories?”

He nods against your shoulder, and you press him just a little tighter in your arms. “You don’t have to be alone in this, Adrian,” you whisper. “Let me help you, please.”

You wait for him to push you aside again, to protest, to call you foolish, naive. 

But he doesn’t.

“You’ve already done so,” he whispers. “More than you could possibly know. I cannot ask you for more.”

“Then don’t ask. Let me give it to you.” Your voice starts to croak, to feel thick. 

His own catches in his throat in what might be a laugh, a mocking, loathing thing. He pulls back, studying your face with a whole mix of emotion written across his. “What about your life? What about leaving and finally exploring the world, actually crossing those eastern mountains with someone who _is_ your husband?”

You think for a moment, shrug. “None of it seems all that urgent,” you say softly, though not with any remorse. Your priorities have simply shifted beneath your notice. You no longer are taking care of just yourself - you have Adrian to care for, to worry about, and as it is he needs to stay at the castle. “I can’t think of anywhere else I’d rather be than here. With you.”

Slowly and with a sigh, he pulls out of your embrace, though his hands settle on your forearms, keeping you close. His eyes fill with fresh mist. “I… I want you to know what you’re getting yourself into,” he says evenly. “What my kind - what _I_ could do to you. Before you offer yourself like that to me. Please. It’s not fair otherwise.”

You don’t need to learn about his kind to know that he must be different. That he must be kinder, more aware, more compassionate.

After all, he possesses more of those qualities than any human you’ve ever met.

“If it will make you feel better, I will learn,” you say. 

“I can only teach you human anatomy for so long,” he scoffs lightly, changing the tone. You hope you’ve truly managed to bring him out of his sulking despair. That this isn't just a front, a tactic of avoidance.

He takes a deep, cleansing breath through his nose, though a look of confusion dawns on his face. “You smell of cinnamon.”

You still can’t tell if he’s really just noticing that now or if this is a desperate plea to change the subject and move on with your lives. 

Regardless, you take him up on it. 

“I baked cookies,” you say, tilting your head smugly as you cross your arms in a mock sense of pride.

His eyes widen. “Really?”

“Yes. But if you want any I’m going to have to insist that you carry me back through the wreckage.” A half joke, to be sure, but Adrian seems to realize something else at your words. 

“You walked here… how did you find me?”

“I followed the fight.” You try to sound as if your own morbid curiosity hadn’t compelled you to do so. “I didn’t know you’d be at the end of it. I am sorry if I imposed.”

He’s quiet for a moment, and then with a sigh, he hoists himself to his feet, offering a hand to bring you up with him. “Don’t be. I’m sorry for running off like that, without explanation.”

You merely smile at him a little tiredly, and he takes you into his arms once more like a bride. Like _his_ bride. 

No, you won’t let yourself think that. Not when he has so much to work through. Your romantic inclinations towards him will have to wait until he’s more comfortable with intimacy, until the ghosts of his past stop haunting him. 

Although their corpses on the doorstep probably aren’t helping much. 

Adrian mutters something about returning later for the crutches as you think about how to remedy that particular situation, but then he asks you something you don’t quite catch. 

“Pardon?”

“Do you… it’s rather a long walk. I asked if you minded flying.”

You squint your eyes shut, remembering the red trails that came with the teleportation to the village or when fleeing the night creature. The sense of vertigo when you stop.

“Slowly?” you ask. Adrian nods, and you hold onto him a little more tightly. “Alright, then.”

The first thing you feel are his arms pressing into you more as he steadily draws the both of you up into the air. He looks at you as if to confirm your consent before moving forward, and then with a steady, smooth pace, you fly on. He starts at a gliding pace, and when you make no signs of discomfort, he goes a little faster. Never as quickly as the teleportation, however. As you whir past tapestries and damages and move on to different parts of the castle that you have not yet explored, you find flying to be rather enjoyable. You tell yourself it's the lightness you feel rather than the pressing of Adrian’s body against your own that has your heart racing. 

He takes you to the kitchen, sets you down at the counter. You draw the cookies from the shelf, hoping that they haven’t crumbled too much while cooling, and present your work to him. There are still shadows to his thin face that make him seem more gaunt than normal, and his eyes aren’t quite as lively as you’d them to be, but his lips twitch up when you go through a dramatic rendering of how exactly you had made the cookies, how they’d been your salvation on cold winter nights. 

“More cold winter nights seem to be on the way,” he remarks wistfully, staring out the window. 

“I’ll just have to bake more often, then.” You take a bite out of your second cookie. Adrian is well past his third. 

“Yes, I suppose you will.”


	18. Light in the Dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick update before this one:
> 
> My time to spare on this fic is sadly becoming increasingly limited. BUT I have many chapters prewritten that serve as a nice buffer while the new ones gradually come together. To ensure that I don't run out of material faster than I can write it, I'm going to start posting only once a week as opposed to 2-3 times. This way you all won't have to go 2+ weeks between updates as that is sometimes how long chapters take to write nowadays. I hope you understand (。_。)
> 
> That being said, I do feel that these next chapters are only getting better, and I hope you enjoy them as much as I enjoyed writing them (this chapter especially).
> 
> 💛💛💛

You’re ill the next morning. 

It is nothing serious, Adrian thinks, thankfully. Likely no more than a cold you picked up at the market. That does not stop him from worrying though. Just a bit. Humans are so fragile, after all, who knows what could take you out, and then what would he do?

He’s made you soup. Tea with honey. You eat and drink it all obediently from your bed, propped up against extra pillows he’s brought in and swathed by a whole host of blankets and quilts that Adrian pulled from all conceivable corners of the derelict castle. Despite all this and your slight fever, you continue to shiver.

“I’m f-f-f-fine,” you protest, clutching to the hot tea like your life depends on it. 

Adrian merely frowns at you from his seat by your bed. “You are not.”

“It’s just a cold, I probably got it from that one hacking woman in the village. My immune system isn’t used to crowds.”

Adrian can’t help but smile a little at that, knowing that he had been the one to teach you what immune systems are. 

Still, that doesn’t make anything better.

“You don’t h-have to worry about me.”

“No? Would you prefer it if I just left you to freeze to death on your own then? Perhaps check in every once in a while when another coughing fit seizes you up?”

As if to punctuate his point, your next inhale produces another of said fits, and Adrian lunges forward to take the tea from your grasp before you spill it over your lap, waiting for the coughing to stop before offering it again to you. 

It is only a half-joke, he hopes you realize. If you in all seriousness asked him to be less smothering and go, he would, even if he finds that he doesn’t want to leave you be. Not entirely. 

“Stay,” you wheeze. “It’s going to be so boring up here alone all day.”

“Shall I move you down to the chaise and start the fire?”

You shake your head, reach for the cup. Or, Adrian thinks that it’s the cup that you want, but your fingers rest over his hand around it instead. “Just… stay. Please. And talk maybe, I like…”

You cut yourself off, and a rush of color to your cheeks has Adrian worried that some other symptom is presenting itself. 

“What is it?”

You look pointedly away. “I like hearing you t-talk,” you say sheepishly. “You have a nice voice.”

Adrian tilts his head. “Do I really?”

A little huff of air from your nose seems to be about as close to a laugh as you can safely get in your state, but you smile nonetheless. “Yes. How else do you think I’ve managed to put up with daily lectures on monsters and anatomy? I promise it isn’t j-just the riveting subject matter.”

Adrian gives you a bemused expression, sets the tea in your hands, and then kicks the chair closer to the edge of your bed. “What is it you would like to hear me talk about?”

You swirl the contents of your cup around, stalling. “Vampires,” you say softly, your red-rimmed eyes flitting up to his, peering nervously behind your lashes. 

His stomach does a little flip at that, despite having been the one to suggest such a topic himself just a few hours prior. “Is that really what you want to hear about?”

You nod. Hum in further affirmation. “I just think that if you’re going to tell me how to stake something in the heart or whatever, it might make you feel better knowing that I am in no fit state to practice your teachings.”

A lighter round of coughs, and Adrian concedes with a sigh. “I’ve already told you of the shapeshifting,” he begins, leaning back in the chair. “And that sunlight is fatal. You asked if it is an instant death, and I cryptically replied ‘sometimes.’ For my father it would have taken several minutes of full sunlight, but he could survive overcast days. For a recently turned, lesser vampire with less knowledge in the arcane, it would take seconds. They turn to ash when they die - by sunlight or otherwise. Hence why you found no bodies on your little palace exploration. Though I now have more armor and leftover weapons clogging up the dungeons where I dumped them than I’ll ever know what to do with.”

“How many vampires are there?”

“Many. Less now that I’ve killed the leaders of each continent in the main hall of this palace,” he winces. “But still. There are others. I’m not sure how many, but no one escaped these walls as far as I am aware once I arrived.”

You fidget a little, sip your tea. “Was it… did it feel wrong to kill other vampires?”

No, it hadn’t felt wrong. It had felt necessary. It had hurt to kill his own father, yes, but that too had felt necessary. For his mother. 

“We aren’t one and the same,” Adrian says darkly. “A half-breed such as myself is rather frowned upon. My capacity for power is lower than a full vampire, and yet I’m just strange enough to be shunned by humans. The only reason I was once well cared for was because my parents loved each other. Had I been born to anyone else, it would have been a different story.”

“Are there other dhampirs, then?”

Adrian merely shrugs. “It is rare for a dhampir to reach maturity, from what I gather. There aren’t many books here or in the hold about it, and any mentions of dhampir infants usually chronicle their swift deaths upon birth due to them being conceived out of… less than consenting wedlock, I’m sure.”

_In the hold._

Shit.

“What’s the hold?” you ask, not missing anything even in your weakened state. You’d looked right past the gruesome nature of the sentence and gone straight to that oh so critical slip of his tongue.

Then again, the hold would have more knowledge on vampires, on their physiology, on the ways in which to kill them…

Well, he did say he wanted you to know. That he trusts you with that information. That if he’s able to kill you with one thought or a swipe of his claws, you might as well know enough to stand some sort of chance. And even if you never need to use the knowledge to stop him, Adrian cannot help but wonder if the skill will come in handy later on, when you’ve left and gone back to living in some cottage farm spinning wool only to have a vampire come stalking you in the night, tempted by your isolation and sweetly beating heart. How, if he isn’t there to kill the creature himself, you _should_ stand a fighting chance -

“Adrian?”

He sighs, forcefully relaxes. “The ruins we walked by. The Belmonts in their time managed to amass a rather extensive collection of books and tomes and all sorts of things that chronicle the many creative ways to kill creatures like me. Among others, I suppose. To them it was something of an art form.”

You wrinkle your nose. “Charming.”

“Hardly.”

There’s a lull then as you wait for Adrian to continue and as he tries to come up with something - anything - more to say. For even if he is potentially only foreshadowing his own demise, it is rather… nice to know that you enjoy listening to him speak, if only for the sound of his voice, something he’s never put much stock in himself. 

“You said that you don’t have to drink blood?” you say, still shivering. “But vampires do?”

Adrian nods, glad that you’ve managed to find something that doesn’t have to do with all the ways in which he can die. “Part of why my potential is lower. If I… drank consistently,” the words and the thought leave a bitter taste on his tongue. “I would closer resemble my vampiric heritage - I’d be able to manage shapeshifting into the bat and the mist more easily, and my senses would pick up. Or, so I was told. I’m far stronger than a human in my weakest state, but even if I drank, I’d not match a vampire in strength, speed, or agility. Not a powerful one, anyway. My father had been weakened from his own abstinence when I finally met him, and even then, he could have stopped me if he wanted.”

He’d wanted to die, somehow. That was the only way Adrian had ever managed to bring him down. Both his parents had died on that stake, burned away. He’d merely killed a ghost. 

And yet somehow, that didn’t make him feel any better. 

Thankfully, you seem to pick up on the rather dismal turn of the conversation, and remedy said fact with a new question, drawing him out of his own morose thoughts and into something else, an action which you are becoming particularly adept at. 

He doesn’t deserve you.

“Do vampires sleep in coffins?” You pause for a moment, raise an eyebrow. “Do _you_?”

A light laugh leaves his chest. “I have slept in one before,” he admits. “For a year straight, actually.”

“They must be comfortable, then?”

He considers. “It's more so that they’re quiet. The heightened hearing can be rather distracting at times, listening to every creaking floorboard, crumbling stone. Paranoid that someone will come and stake you in your sleep.” He shakes his head, presses onward. “But they aren’t entirely necessary. My parents shared an actual bed. It is not uncommon for vampires to retain much of their lives before turning.”

Not to mention that it would be rather difficult to have sex in a coffin, a fact which Adrian has noted several times since the incident had occurred on his own bed. The main reason why he hadn’t ventured out to purchase one was because the coffins vampires slept in tend to be far nicer than the ones made for burying the common human. Even so, coffins aren’t just readily available in any of the neighboring towns. They have to be made upon someone’s death, or a vampire’s turning. Perhaps it is just Adrian’s noble birth, but he can’t imagine that a pinewood box would do him any better than an open bed. Both are, after all, rather lonely. 

“How is one turned?”

Adrian picks at a piece of lint on his trousers. “A vampire bites a human, drinks them half dry, and then offers their own blood in exchange. Both parties are weakened for a time, and the human goes through a rather gruesome series of physical changes for about a week, but in the end, if they survive the ordeal, they will turn. It does change a person, though, makes them crueler, more selfish. Hence why my mother never allowed my father to turn her, sacrificing eternal life with him for her humanity.”

It wasn’t an argument that his parents hid from him, growing up. They rarely hid anything, for that matter, but his mother had been stubborn in this as she was in many things. She had fought so adamantly for her own race on the subject, using her choice as a means by which to prove to his father that humanity was worth saving, worth understanding despite their close-minded, nearsighted goals.

It hadn’t done much good in the end, but Adrian supposes it is the sentiment that held merit more so than the applications of said theory.

“Could _you_ turn someone? If you wanted? If they… consented?”

There’s something in the tone of your voice that catches him off guard, the way you look to the side and fiddle with your hair when you ask. Subtle things that others might not notice, but that he does, and it fills him with unease.

“No, I physically cannot. Not that I would if I were able to. It isn’t worth it.”

When you next speak, your voice is small. “Even if it meant watching someone you love age and die?”

There’s so much you aren’t saying, aren’t telling him. So much emotion in your soft voice that he cannot read. Adrian can’t tell what you’re insinuating, if anything at all, and so it is a while before he replies, trying to think of the best thing to say, to respond with. 

“They wouldn’t be the same person after being turned, and since it is out of the realm of possibility for me to do, I have not considered it an option.”

You nod, your eyes focused on the blanket, lost in thought as you process what he’s told you. 

“And how… how do you kill a vampire?”

The room grows cold at that, and even Adrian can’t help but shiver. His jaw tenses, his hands stiffen on his knees. He looks down at the floor to answer your question. He cannot bear to look at you for it. 

“If you have an enchanted whip, you strike them hard enough and they explode into nothingness. That was the Belmonts’ preferred method. A wooden stake driven through the heart was mine, in the end, but in addition to other magicks.” Adrian swallows, but you make no move to interrupt him. “As for me…” he tugs aside the low collar of his shirt, pushes up his sleeves. “Distracted, bound in a blessed silver relic and, if they had been successful, stabbed through the heart with a dagger.”

It’s as if the world at the corners of his vision is going black with the intensity of his focus on one particular nail in the floor. He stares at if as if it can offer him salvation from the memory. 

Something cold touches his hand, and he jerks up at the sensation. You’ve shifted forward on the bed, your fingers finding their way into his, something sad on your own face. 

“I’m sorry that you’ve known so much pain,” you say, softly. “Thank you for trusting me enough to tell me of it.”

Adrian knows he’s supposed to say something in response, that he’s supposed to tell you how you are too kind, too willing to support him. Too generous in your trust of him when he can rip your throat out without so much as a thought.

But all he can think of is how cold and sick you seem and how, if you are to leave him yet, succumbing to the illness, he isn’t sure he’d be able to go on alone. Without your kind words and soft glances and -

“You’re so cold,” he remarks, unable to hide the blunt worry in his tone.

You draw back your hand, apologizing profusely.

Adrian bolts up. “No, no that’s not what I-“

There aren’t any more blankets in the palace that he knows of, unless he means to start raiding the guest chambers of their comforters, something that he theoretically _could_ manage-

Or, a simpler, swifter solution. 

He reaches down, hastily unlaces his boots before he has a chance to doubt himself, to allow logic to seep back into his brain. He takes your tea and sets it on the bedside table, and makes to crawl under the mass of your blankets. 

“I don’t want to get you sick-“ you protest, coughing over your shoulder. You rub your sternum afterwards, giving away the feeling of burning that must reside there.

“That would be very ambitious of you,” Adrian smiles, though he does wait for you to protest his entrance into your bed again before climbing in fully. You offer no more resistance. And in a moment, he finds his way around you once more, turning you so that your back presses into his chest and his arms envelop you in his body heat. He isn’t particularly warm blooded, he knows, not when compared to a human, or to the absolute furnace that is Trevor Belmont, who can sleep under a tree in the dead of winter with nothing but a stomach full of cheap beer and a ragged, smelling cloak. His own hands are cold more often than not, but he does generate some body heat, and as you lean into his touch, Adrian gets the sense that you appreciate what little warmth he is able to give you. 

When you speak, Adrian can feel your voice in his own chest, right alongside the beating of your heart that his is speeding up to match.

“Is this… hard for you? To be in a bed with me after everything?”

You’re holding very still, he realizes, watching you looking ahead and making no quick movements. 

“I thought it might be, once,” he admits, thinking back to the first time he’d comforted you, after the night creature attack. How he’d left as soon as you were asleep for fear that something would happen to make him lash out. “I find it’s… nice. To replace the feeling of them against me with someone I actually care about.”

Adrian’s too busy coming to the realization just as the words leave his mouth to notice the latter part of his statement, but he does not miss the way you soften into him.

“I care about you too, Adrian,” you say coughing lightly. You shiver even still, and Adrian holds you just a little tighter. 

He hopes that you understand what those words mean to him. How, just your compassion, your friendship has him threatening to break around you all over again. How you stumbling into his lonely castle and bringing with you normalcy and light and hope had somehow been the best thing to ever happen to him.

How his throat is starting to burn just thinking about it, about how you cannot stay forever, about how you must eventually leave him one way or another. 

“You asked me once what sunlight feels like,” he says, voice hoarse. “That first day we went out. I said it felt safe.”

“Yes?”

He buries his head into your neck, fighting the blush and the swell of emotions he cannot possibly name. “You feel like sunlight to me.”

He’d wanted to say as much then, when you’d been the first person to look at him like _that_ for more than a minute. To look at him like he mattered, like he was worth something. Worth something _good_. It had been too hard then, with you facing him, able to read the vulnerability slapped across his face, but now, like this, Adrian finds that it's easier when he can’t see your expression, if no less nerve-wracking. What if he’s said too much, if you don’t feel the same way?

You do nothing for a long moment, and though breathing has never been a particular necessity of his, Adrian finds that his lungs have seized, that his breath is held as he waits for you to accept or reject the information, to kick him out of the bed. 

Your arms wriggle around in the sheets, and then they reach under and around where his cross at your chest, and he can feel your sigh on his skin just as your fingers hold firm over his scars.

“What an honor,” you say with the sound of bells on your light laugh. “I… thank you. I’m glad I make you feel safe.”

You make him feel _more_ than that, of course, but he doesn’t plan to vocalize such sentiment. He isn’t even sure what to say on the matter, how he feels. He certainly isn’t sure what he expected you to say back to such a statement, such an abstract, flowery attempt to express how you make his heart falter, how your smile makes his stomach weak and the thought of you hurt or sick or injured has him staying awake all night patrolling the borders when such worries claim him in the most dismal of autumnal hours.

Some things, he decides, are just better left unsaid. You’ll have to leave at some point - he has no intention of forcing you to stay longer than necessary, longer than it takes for you to be able to walk without stumbling. Because as much as he loves your sunlight, he knows that it cannot just be for him. That you could make so many other people wonderfully happy - that you will find a husband, raise a family. Become a grandmother and pass on stories of that one dhampir in a castle who spared your life and sheltered you for the fall, perhaps also much of the winter. A real life filled with kindness and fun and all the things he cannot give to you himself. Because while you make him feel safe, he cannot offer you the same. He will always be hunted, chased. The castle will be raided at some point or another, and if you are here he’ll be too busy worrying about you to throw himself into harm’s way with reckless abandon. If Trevor and Sypha had stayed, it might be a different story. He might stand a chance, then. But if something happens to him and you’re left in the castle alone…

That is something he fears more than what he himself might do to you on a bad day.

You’d do better in a village, then. With many people to keep an eye on you. Perhaps he’ll allow himself to visit every once in a while, steal out under a moonless sky to catch a glimpse of you sewing away through the window. Because you _are_ sunlight to him, a precious resource that he cannot survive without.

But the thing about sunlight is that it doesn’t last. It fades and withers as the day draws to a close and the darkness of night takes over.

Sunlight doesn’t last. 

And so, naturally, neither can you.


	19. Funeral Pyre

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... I'm rather fond of how I wrote the ending to this particular chapter, tying in some old plot points and metaphors and all that. Enjoy 💛

You must have dozed off at some point, because when you wake, the sky is a muted orange and fading fast. As is the nature of a cold, where you had once been shivering and frozen, you are now incredibly, uncomfortably hot.

No doubt due to the five different blankets piled on top of you. 

You turn over, your movements feeling slow and sluggish and restricted by the weight bearing down on your body, but as you flip from one side to the other, you realize that the blankets aren’t what’s holding you in place. 

It’s Adrian, lying still as death with his arms still wrapped loosely around your torso. His eyes framed by soft blond lashes are closed lightly, and his soft mouth is parted just enough to bare the tiniest hint of his fangs. 

You’ve never seen him sleeping before, let alone next to you, and so the sight of it distracts you from the sudden sickly warmth of your body as you take in the sight with something akin to greed. You wouldn’t say he looks peaceful, exactly, more like he’s lost in some deep thought. With all his talk of sound-proof coffins, you get the sense that he’s a rather light sleeper, and since even he had begun to shows dark shadow beneath his eyes in recent days, you have no desire to wake him, to ruin the moment. 

So you settle into the pillow again, gently, your face inches from his, and let your sleepy eyes wander over what little you can see of him. The sharp, angular planes of his face contrasting against the softness to his rumpled hair as it falls into that little dip between his shoulder and his neck. You study that neck, the strong, rope-like tendons relaxed, leading down to a solid collarbone and the crisscross of scars you have yet to see the full extent of. The permanent reminders of what had been done to him.

You believed Adrian, of course. There is no doubt in your mind that he isn’t lying, that he hadn’t invented the story as a way to lull you into some sense of security, to assure you of your own safety so long as you don’t attempt to kill him yourself. The scars are proof enough, but the pain in his eyes, in his voice as he’d admitted as much to you -

That is all too real. 

And as such, you are surprised that he seems to find his way into your bed so easily. You suppose he has been around you for long enough to trust you, though. Enough to say that you feel like _sunlight_.

You know that feeling. After having spent months tucked away, hidden. Bound. You’ve felt the sting of captivity and the release of freedom, and that one little admission from him is enough to encapsulate all of that emotion, that racing heart and soft assurance working together to tell your terrified body that you are _safe_ , you will be alright. 

You’d meant what you said. That being compared to such a feeling is a great honor to you. You weren’t sure what else to say, for what words could possibly be used to convey such sentiment? Such utter gratitude and awe at being seen as the most wonderful of things?

You hope he understood you. That he knows you reciprocate whatever it is that he feels for you and likely then some. How could you not fall for the person who had freed you, who had let you taste the same sunlight? His looks, his physical embodiment of that golden substance, certainly hadn’t helped either. For him to be so close now…

Perhaps it is the first time that you allow yourself to think of it in plain terms, but you know that if given the chance, you very well could love him. His tender looks and soft touches on your skin, the sound of his voice lulling you to sleep.

 _But he might not want that_ , you think to yourself. If he’d been nearly killed after the last time he’d been in what you suppose must have been a relatively intimate relationship, lying next to you like this in bed might be the closest he can get to such things at present. You’d thought it silly to hope that he might return your affections before, what with all the things he is and that you aren’t, but now it’s more of a matter of past traumas, of getting through the mental and the physical blocks. Something he has to learn to do on his own. 

But that doesn’t mean you can’t help him. You will, of course. In whatever ways you can, including waking him up from what you sense is the start of a nightmare. 

You aren’t sure, at first, thinking that perhaps he’s just stirring. But your moment of peaceful observation is ended when his head jerks to the side, when his arms splay around you. 

“Adrian,” you call, grabbing his shoulders. His brow furrows, you shake harder, repeat his name. “Wake up.”

A soft whimper in the back of his throat, a jerk of his shoulders.

You push aside the blankets, crawl so that you lean over him, calling him, begging to just _wake up_ -

And when his eyes shoot open, the next thing you know is your back is pushed against the mattress with the weight of him sitting harshly on your hips. Something sharp in one hand digs into your wrists pinned above your head while his other goes to your throat, and if you weren’t so focused on the way his face contorts into something gaunt and snarling, you might notice that he has grown claws at the tips of his fingers which restrain you with a cruel and merciless embrace.

Those eyes though, with pupils narrowed to pinpricks, are what frighten you most. Not even his fangs - longer than normal and poised to pierce flesh - startle you so. This is different to when he pinned you yesterday, when it was just for show.

“Adrian,” you manage, the pressure on your throat suddenly very noticeable, especially as your cold threatens to launch you into another coughing fit. “It... was a dream - a... bad dream.”

For a moment longer, he does not move, does not change from the panicked, instinctual creature poised above you. But then he blinks, breathes.

And the very second you see realization dawn on his face, he flies off you, stumbling out of the bed just as your body arcs inward and the burning air seizes your lungs and makes you cough a rattling, gasping, awful sound that has your eyes water and your chest ache.

Horrified doesn’t begin to express the way Adrian is staring at you, at his shaking hands held out before him. The way his frightened eyes are locked onto your own where you grasp at your throat is as if he expects to see blood pouring down it, staining the sheets around you with bitterly avoidable tragedy. 

But your hands are dry, and you regain control of your body. _Breathe_ , you think. _Just breathe_.

Adrian’s own breaths are shallow and ragged, but you notice the way his shoulders relax just a bit when your hands leave your throat and reveal nothing but clean, soft skin, untouched by him in a way that would cease your mortal existence. 

“I’m sorry,” he gasps, shaking his head and taking a step back. “I… you shouldn’t… I’m so sorry.”

For a second you think he’s going to bolt out of the room, and as frantically as your own heart is beating, as much as your memories of being held down and thrown in a wagon are fighting to resurface, you push it back. You’ve learned to control your dreams, your fear. Because you’ve felt safe in the castle, safe in sleep. 

But Adrian obviously hasn’t, and it’s not his fault. 

“I’m okay,” you say through your roughened voice, knowing that you are his primary concern at the moment. “You didn’t hurt me.”

You kick off the rest of the covers, and your bare feet are hit with the cold floors as you take a few lightheaded steps in his direction. 

Adrian backs away, but when you start to see fuzzy stars and a bit of blackness inking the edges of your vision, he’s forced to step forward and keep you from falling, though the pain on his face is written plain as day and the stiffness in his trembling limbs as he holds you still. For a moment, you aren't sure who is anchoring whom.

His eyes are normal again, when you open yours. Gone are the pinprick pupils that cut through you like daggers, replaced instead by twin pools of gilded, innumerable sorrows.

“It’s alright,” you whisper, looking up at him evenly. “It was a bad dream, it wasn’t your fault-”

“I shouldn’t have let myself fall asleep,” he mutters quickly, the remnants of panic still present in his tone. “I can’t-”

You reach for his face, pulling it down so that he is forced to meet your gaze. “It is not your fault,” you whisper, waiting to see the understanding of your words reach him.  
He blinks for a moment, falters. 

And then his fingers intertwine with yours, and he presses his forehead against you. “I told you I’m dangerous,” he says weakly, making your still calming heart ache. 

“You were frightened,” you soothe. “You weren’t actually going to hurt me.”

A moan, a shaking exhale. “I can’t get them out of my head. Every time I think I’ve managed, there they are, dying again and again and I can’t stop it.”

Your lip goes between your teeth, your mind struggling to come up with something to do, to say. You cannot take the trauma or the pain away, no matter how sweetly you hold him or offer reassurances. He has to find his own closure, his own way of sealing those dark wounds.

“Adrian?” you ask, softly, pulling away enough to get him to look at you through the tears in his devastating eyes. “Let’s set them to rest. Their bodies. Now. Let’s bury them or burn them or something. Anything. They’ve been on the front steps long enough.”

Something in his face breaks for a moment, but he steels himself, looks out the window. “The ground will be too hard with cold to dig graves.”

“Then we’ll burn them. Like you did with the night creature.”

“There is no ‘we,’” he says, making you wince. “This is my burden to bear-”

“But I can-”

“You’re ill,” he says, firmly. “It’s bitterly cold, I’ll not let you come with me.”

You cross your arms, fix him with your most determined look. “Wrap me in cloaks. It won’t be for long, Adrian. I can’t get more sick from cold weather.”

He flounders. “You can still get pneumonia.”

“It isn’t raining.” He grimaces, but you intervene again before he can think of another excuse to push you away. “Look, if it’s really something you want to do alone, I’ll respect that. But if you want someone there to lean on when it all happens, I want to be there for you.”

You hold firm in your stance, firm in your words. You’ll grab some cloaks, put on a dress - you just now realize that you are still wearing only your night shift - you’ll go down with him whether he likes it or not if it is what he needs. 

You won’t leave him alone in this. 

And, as if he senses your resolute willfulness, he sighs. Sags a little. “Fine,” he relents, looking away. Towards where your boots sit neatly next to the ones he messily discarded. “Get dressed, then.”

He grabs his boots with the most somber expression you’ve ever seen him wear, and sits looking out the window, giving you some privacy while you slip the blue long-sleeved dress over your nightclothes, slide the warm wool stockings up past your knees. You don the boots, now more worn in than they wore upon purchasing, and fasten your hair back in the white cloth. When you turn back to him, Adrian’s boots are laced up to his knee, and his mouth is set in a firm line. 

“Let’s go,” you say, extending your hand and meaning to lead him out. 

He swallows, takes it. His own hand has gone quite cold.

He lets you lead him down the hallway, across the stairs at a slow, dismal pace. He trails behind you like a ghost tethered to this realm only by your touch. You detour to the kitchen to grab your cloak. Adrian’s jacket is nowhere to be seen, and so you assume that cold doesn’t affect him the way it does you. Doubtless you’ll ask him the next time you convince him to talk to you about vampires. 

Swathed in the warm wool, you journey to the front hall, lit in the darkness by lightning trapped in high up bottles, as Adrian had once explained in a long ago lesson. You had marveled then, but there is more to your world at present, more pressing matters than the flickering blue glow high above your head. 

Adrian begins to drag when you’ve reached the front doors, all the while having been wordless prior. He still does not speak, but his face has lost all color when you glance at him over your shoulder, and each step forward seems to be an incredible effort.

“Wait,” he sighs just as you get close enough for the doors to begin to budge open of their own accord. 

You expect him to protest again, to tell you to wait inside while he goes and handles things, trapping you as if you can’t be trusted to bear the sight of his pain. 

But he merely holds out his hand lowly to the side, his gaze fixed resolutely on the ground, and a moment later there is a familiar trail of silver in the hallway behind him as the longsword flashes into his grasp. 

“It _is_ night,” he says by means of an explanation. 

He need not say more, for after all, there is much to fear in the night. The last thing either of you want is to be attacked when you’re so distracted, and so with a nod from him, you take the last step forward, letting the heavy doors rattle and grind open, baring you to the frigid early winter winds that come in gusts which tease and bite and threaten to make off with your cloak. 

“Come,” you prompt, still pulling his stiff form begrudgingly behind you. You are glad that he agreed to let you be here for this - otherwise you feel that it would be very likely for him to lose his resolve. 

You have passed the corpses before. On your very first journey here you’d seen their decomposing flesh stretched gruesomely over bone, forced over wood. You haven’t let yourself look at them since, especially since Adrian’s always led you out the servant’s door, but you dare yourself to take them in one last time. Perhaps it’s out of respect for whoever they might have been, or out of loathing for what they had done to the one person you actually care about, or just that morbid, human instinct of being unable to look away in the face of something horrible - that awful, urging curiosity. 

Regardless, seeing as Adrian isn’t going to be pulling you out into the world, you once again lead him, crossing the threshold on sure steps one right after the other down the stony stairs and onto the path, the frigid, frozen grass.

You know Adrian’s eyes scan the trees behind you, that the tilt to his head and the inhale he takes is to check for predators even now. 

“Do you… should we say something?” you ask him once he’s stopped his cursory inspections and turned to face what he had done nearly two months ago. Whatever Adrian’s feelings are in the matter, they certainly can’t be simple. You aren’t personally much for the idea of giving them any respect whatsoever after what they tried to do to Adrian, but this isn’t your moment, your place to say how he should be allowed to grieve, to process his guilt and his trauma. 

_They came to me as friends and I loved them as such._

Adrian stares at where the leftmost stake sticks out of the ground, at the trailing feet and the bones peeking out of decayed skin. 

He opens his mouth, tenses his throat, but nothing comes out. He swallows, tries again. Shakes his head. 

“They had names. Lives. Humanity despite it all. Taka and Sumi,” he sighs, the names sharp and somehow hollow at the same time as the winds carry them away. “Together in life, and now in death…”

You tighten your grip around his lifeless hand, trying to be comforting. 

He slips his grasp out of yours, raises his palms to strike at each other…

But he hesitates, his hands raised motionless as if in some silent prayer. You see the stiffness to his fingers, the slight tremble there. 

“ _Flammis Inferni_ ,” you utter, completing what he could not and summoning two orbs of hellfire betwixt your palms in much the same way you’ve done for the past fortnight in the grand ballroom under Adrian’s guidance. Where you had once aimed for scraps, wooden piles, old stones, you now aim for a different kind of debris. 

It takes a moment for the pyres to light, what with the wind and the damp chill to the air, but hellfire proves to be as resilient as Adrian once claimed, engulfing the bodies in ruby tendrils soon after. The wind pushes the flames to and fro, and you are holding your hands aloft, waiting to close the spell until nothing remains of the bodies and the stakes besides charred ash. 

At some point, Adrian turns away, dropping to his knees beside you shortly after, though you do not look down. You don’t see the tears lining his cheeks or the way he roughly swipes at them with a scarred wrist. You are too busy concentrating on the fire, on containing it to just those two spots. The flames dance in your stomach as if it is your body which is engulfed by them, though not in mourning. Not celebration either, but instead a sense of duty, obligation to the man who has given you so much in this life that you don’t take for granted for even the merest of seconds. He has fought through his fear alone thus far, willing to see the good in you despite not having been shown it before, sacrificing his sleep and safety of mind and his loneliness for a sick, injured girl who until recently couldn’t even leave her bedroom on her own two feet. For that kindness alone, you owe him your unwavering gratitude. 

But he has done more, of course. Shown you in his own small way that you can learn to be happy as well, to live freely and without fear - of men or of beasts. Because should either come, you’ll have _him_. Your savior of pale, glimmering gold coming to defend his no longer fragile scrap of sunlight. 

In this small way, in the burning of his past, his guilt, his tethers to grief, perhaps you can start to repay him. To draw out someone who laughs, jokes, teases you. Holds you like the second he lets go you’ll fall into some dismal abyss where not even he can save you. 

Perhaps, if he were to really let go, wash his hands of you, you _would_ be beyond saving, drowning in the depths of your own loyalty, devotion. 

_Love_.

The thought chills you enough to return to the present, and you see that the flames you control no longer burn on fuel, but on air, suspended just above the now scorched earth, waiting to be reclaimed, released.

You swivel your palms, left overtaking right, and when you close the gap between them, a shudder runs though your body and into the earth with a sense of utter finality. 

“It's done,” you breathe, feeling lightheaded again but much more sure of yourself, though you do carefully lay a hand on Adrian’s shaking shoulder to prevent you from toppling over entirely. 

After a few moments in which he says nothing, Adrian’s own hand rests on top of yours, holding you as firmly as you had done him. 

You are not alone. _Not anymore_.

As you stay there, motionless in the howling night, a few white flecks land on Adrian’s shoulders, on the folds of your cloak wrapped tightly around you. You think it to be nothing more than ash at first, but when the specks melt, you crane your neck up to gaze into the dark sky overrun by gray sheets of clouds. They are not pieces of ash, remnants of the old floating back down to haunt the both of you even still for your desecrations. 

No, this is something pure, crystalline. A marker not of death, but of sleep, restoration during a long winter’s hibernation only to let the world bloom more triumphantly come spring at long last.

For the white flecks, falling now in great abundance across the landscape, across your two forms small and meek in comparison to the looming arches of the castle, the jagged ruins of the Belmont estate, and the swaying, lithe silhouettes of the peaks of trees against that ever-changing sky, is not ash. 

It is snow.


	20. Comfortable Silence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! Moving on to the next arc of things. Just a very early heads up, I'm using Yule as the winter holiday celebrated in this fic (it will come up more later.) I'm tying it to the winter solstice being the longest night of the year, and therefore important to vampires as a result. Reader also has a very specific reason to like Yule which will be revealed later. I'm doing things this way and letting you know in advance because I want this fic to be as widely inclusive as it can be, and we all celebrate different things for different reasons :)

You had insisted Adrian stay in your bed again that night, should he want to. 

“I’m cold again and I don’t think you should be alone with your thoughts,” you’d yawned with a shudder, shrugging off the cloak and tumbling onto the edge of the mattress, sloppily tugging at your half-laced boots. Practicing magic seemed to tire you out on a good day, and you had nearly exerted yourself to the point of exhaustion. Perhaps, in a kinder world, he would have taken you up on your offer, falling against you like two pieces of puzzle that just almost fit together, or that would with the right amount of force, even if the pictures don’t quite line up. It’s what he’d _wanted_ to do. 

But he remembered all too clearly what he had nearly done just an hour or so before, and he’d declined. Or rather, he’d tried to. All words, all manner of speaking seemed to have left him as the bodies burned, for better or for worse, he could not say. He wanted to tell you that he appreciated the offer, the trust, more than you could ever know, almost as badly as he wanted to take you up on it, to not be alone. 

But no matter how hard he tried, words just would not come. 

In fear of hurting you in another way, with _rejection_ , of all things, he’d sighed, stepped to the right, and settled down in his wolf form in the folds of a cloak which smelled oh so strongly like you, even with the lingering scent of ash, gazing up to your place on the bed with an expression he hoped you could read, even if he himself wasn’t sure what exactly that expression was. 

You’d softened at it, nonetheless, and nodded, blowing out the candle on your bedside table and settling into the sheets of your twin bed. It looked so small then, so narrow. Adrian had a hard time believing that the both of you had ever fit there. 

Then again, there are less believable things happening to him every day. The fact that the morning after, even with the few hours of admittedly heavy sleep he got, Adrian’s voice still hasn’t returned to him. He’d hoped that shifting between wolf and human would have jogged his senses back into functionality, but when you sit up and wish him a good morning, when he stands up, stretches slightly, and steps to the left, he finds himself just as silent as the night before, only able to nod. 

_Is he in shock? Cursed, somehow? What exactly had stolen his voice like a thief in that cold, wintery wind?_

You, for one, take things far better than he could have ever expected, which, in all honesty, is becoming a trait of yours he should rather come to anticipate. He already has come to admire it. 

“Luckily for you, I feel much better,” you beam, kicking off the sheets with only the barest hint of a cough lingering on your own words, your voice which flows freely from your chest, uncaged.   
Outside your window, the world is bathed in splendid brightness, the glimmer of sun over freshly fallen, unmarked snow, a canvas waiting to be painted with footprints of animals on their daily journeys, excursions. Waiting for life to be lived. 

Adrian does have the sense to carry you downstairs again. As much as he wants to let you walk, you’ve been doing more than enough of that in the last two days for his conscience, and besides, the scent of you had worn off the cloak as the night went on, and holding you close lets him find it once again, even if he is unable to reciprocate the light chatter you offer on the way down, your arms wrapped around his neck and your head resting on his shoulder. 

You profess that baking is in order, when you arrive at the kitchen again. Adrian is more than happy to be delegated the task of running to and from the cellar, bringing you ingredients as you list them out. He wouldn’t say that his silence is necessarily morose, though it is certainly not from any sense of elatement. Despite your profession of liking the sound of his voice, Adrian has always been more the type of person to think things over in his head in times of crisis. Words, when spoken, are carefully selected. Measured, either for better (when explaining concepts to you) or for worse (sending an insult about the Belmonts to their last remaining heir.) When he does not speak, it is usually as a result of him having nothing to say. 

But when he returns to you, as he watches you make a mess of his kitchen with a slightly torn sack of flour and laugh it off and promise to worry about it later, when you tell him which ingredients to mix together in what quantities and ask if he has any sort of ginger (for some reason), he wonders if the problem isn’t having too _little_ to say, but rather, far too _much_. For how can he possibly express the weight that has left his chest, how it no longer seems so frightfully hollow, instead filled by the light which you’ve shone into the dark caverns of his heart? When you’ve walked into his house, ripped open every skeleton closet he’s thrown at you, and pressed on, asked to see _more_?

How can he say that the thought of you actually _staying_ here, with him, forever, both terrifies and delights him? It is no longer a fear of what you might do, or even, what he might do, for if one thing is clear in his jumbled, overbrimming collection of thoughts, it is that even if he cannot trust himself now, if you stay, if you help him, he will be able to, in time. In a manner of weeks, you’ve already brought him back from the doldrums of depression, revived him from the brink of death. In a matter of months, of years… who’s to say that he will remember Taka and Sumi as anything more than a drop of rain in a stream, washed away and thought up only on the most fleeting of occasions? He has no doubt that you are good for him, as much as he might not want to admit it to himself, might not want to tell you in fear of tying you here against your better interests. That fact, the _thought_ that you could stay and make him better, fix him, in a sense, almost overpowers the ache of knowing that no matter how long you stay, are happy, it will not last. Hopefully it will be due to old age and not some beastly attack of a night creature, but it will happen. You will die, and he will once again be alone. 

_Is this how his father had felt?_

And suddenly Adrian understands the meaning behind his own existence just a little better. For his mother would - and did - die, but she didn’t leave his father. Not entirely. Aside from the half-mad ravings due to the nature of her untimely demise, Adrian was likely born out of a desire to preserve her memory a little longer, keep his father from spiraling into that madness, that loneliness. 

This too, Adrian had failed. 

But he will not fail you. 

You press a misshapen cookie back together on the tin, nose dusted with a smudge of flour and scrunched in concentration. His own fingers mimic yours, separating the dough into careful piles. 

“I know I just baked the other day,” you shrug, dusting off your hands once the both of you have finished that task and Adrian’s lowered the sheet into the oven. “But the snow got me thinking about another recipe - gingerbread cookies. I haven’t had them since I was a kid but my grandmother used to let me decorate them with icing that I don’t remember how to make. We even made houses out of the things at Yule, had a village competition. We ate them all afterwards, which was the most fun.”

 _Yule is still half a month off_ , Adrian realizes, having not thought about the holiday himself. This far east it is often referred to as Koleda instead, and he hasn’t celebrated it himself in any meaningful way since he was a small child when his mother had insisted on stringing up a few wreaths and being very human about it all as his father just chuckled and went outside to observe the stars instead. While he doesn’t doubt that the snow had brought the idea of making gingerbread cookies into your head, Adrian isn’t foolish enough to look around the fact that they were something that had made you happy in the past and that your baking more was a way to try and liven up his own spirits. 

He’s hit again with how little he deserves you, and yet…

Maybe someday, he can. Be deserving, that is. Even if his own judgement rules him as lacking that privilege, you certainly seem to think he’s worth being kind to. Worth cheering up. And _you_ seem to be in your right mind, so…

He thinks about it still, after you’ve taken the cookies out and made the whole kitchen smell like spices. Your cough returns as the day grows dark, and Adrian tugs you to the most familiar study where he summons a fire - such an easy thing to do today, when last night it had seemed utterly impossible for him. All the while, you don’t let go of his hand, not even when you sit into the tall back of the chaise and pull him along with you. 

He’s stiff, though. A little uncomfortable, sufficiently nervous, but when is he not? As the flames climb a little higher in the hearth, flickering almost peacefully, if fire can be such a thing for Adrian, he feels you start to soften, lean. In what seems to be both a very short and a very long amount of time later, your head falls onto his shoulder, the weight of it very light, soft.   
Slowly, trembling a little, his hand reaches around and cradles the back of your dozing head, all while his eyes remain fixed on the fire. It seems easier, that way. Staring off as if he can dull the full force of feeling such a small act of yours assaults him with. How strange, that you constantly pull him so close - how he reaches for you, takes you in like you’re vital to his own survival. 

_Perhaps_ , he thinks as the flames dim, fade, turn to ash, _in some ways, you are_.

The thought that he could be selfish enough to ask you to stay with him longer crosses his mind once again. He can picture many more nights like this where he has nothing to say but you keep him contented and happy regardless. Because you are one of the few things that has ever brought him that emotion, if not the only. You are not tied to some plot to kill his father, or himself, you aren’t after knowledge he can’t give you or spells he cannot perform. In all honesty, you don’t seem to be after anything, much, or maybe you aren’t sure what you want yet.   
Adrian doesn’t even entertain the idea that what you might be after is very simply, himself, his attention and limited capacities for affection. No, he’s far too busy wondering if he can get you to stay with him, if it’s even a good idea to try, if you’ll be safe here. 

A forgotten memory of his drags to the forefront of his thoughts as he carries you half-asleep to your bedroom, brings the covers around your shoulders and brushes the hair from your face. His father had possessed a mirror which showed him whatever he desired to see - the same sort of mirror which had been in the Belmont hold and allowed Sypha to summon the castle to them. The pieces of it remain in his personal study which Adrian has been avoiding like the plague since the first battle, but if he wants answers, wants to know if there are night creatures sent by an unknown assailant making the castle unsafe for you, the mirror would tell him. 

Regardless of if those are questions he _should_ answer or ones that he even _wants_ to, he glides on silent steps to the study after closing your door, the halls feeling cold and empty without you beside him. 

Moonlight glints through the window, making the pieces of glass shimmer to the right where they lay. 

Adrian stares at it, for a moment, breathes in, and begins the search for answers.


	21. Training

You aren’t really sure what’s spurred Adrian into speaking to you again, but you are glad of it, even if all he’s done since you’d woken up and made your way down to the kitchen on your own two feet is insist on finding you a whole host of weapons from the castle armory and explaining each one in great detail.

“Flails are great weapons for someone of a larger stature,” he muses, passing a heavy, spiked ball dangling on a short chain from a leather-wrapped stick. You nearly drop it upon taking the full force of its weight, and you quickly place it back on the shelf beside you as Adrian reaches for a thin shortsword. “This would work in addition to a shield, if you think you can wield both, though perhaps an array of knives would be better suited to you.”

“Not that I don’t appreciate this,” you say, also putting aside the sword as quickly as possible. “But why exactly am I finding weapons?”

Adrian keeps his back to you, looting through disorganized shelves and piles of a whole array of daggers that look to come from all corners of the world, doubtlessly left behind by all the vampires killed in the palace, for they are too elegant to be human weapons. 

“Well, magic is useful, but I would be remiss if I were to send you out to fend off beasts and the roaming hands of village men with only spells of fire and light. Holding your own in a bar fight is a useful skill.”

“I can’t just fireball someone and be done with it?” you groan, rubbing your temples. If he means to send you out… well, you suppose it will have to happen sooner or later, regardless of how much you might want to stay instead. Hopefully, Adrian’s desire to be rid of you has not been heightened by the way you’d burned the corpses outside. 

“No, not unless you’d like to be tried and found guilty of witchcraft almost instantly following such an act,” Adrian replies, stacking a set of curved daggers the length of your forearm in the crook of one elbow. 

“Fair enough.”

There’s no point in trying to hide the weariness in your voice, the dread sinking in from realizing that your time here truly is limited. That, once Adrian has taught you sufficiently in the way to wield a few daggers and a shortsword he also adds to the collection in his arms, there will be nothing left to warrant your stay in the castle, not if he’s decided that you must leave. You consider asking him about it, telling him that you would prefer to stay here where it is safe and warm and filled with marvelous science as opposed to some leaky, drafty cottage in the middle of nowhere, in a town you aren’t familiar with and villagers who are as indifferent to you as the last ones had been.

But he’s dealing with so much, maybe he just needs the space. Maybe having you here isn’t the best thing for him, not now. Not when the reminders of his past have been set to rest and he’s free to move on with his life, especially if he has no intention of involving you in it.

If Adrian notices the shift in your attitude, which he must with his stellar observational skills, he says nothing on the subject, instead taking the weapons he deems suitable and yourself and stationing everything once again in the ballroom which is quickly becoming worn from your practicings of magic gone wayward. There’s a particularly deep gash about twelve feet up on a stone wall between tall windows which had been the result of a spell that shot jolts of energy into the air with enough force to make the hair on the back of your neck stand up. Needless to say, that particular spell has been placed on hold for the time being, regardless of everything that has happened in the last few days and unrelated to the fact that your primary focus now seems to be on swordsmanship as opposed to occult magic. 

“You’ll need to lengthen your stance,” Adrian instructs, pointing the tip of his own longsword at your ankles from a healthy distance. “Staggered front and back. Otherwise you’ll topple. Left forward.”

You do as you’re instructed, though not without a thought of embarrassment at your attire. Your green kirtle, while versatile to a great many things, is not intended to be worn in a swordfight. _You_ , with your still healing ankle and strategy of fleeing from pursuers rather than attacking, seem rather out of place in a swordfight, though that fact does seem to be lost on Adrian. 

“Raise your sword before you, keep your right hand closer to the cross section, left near the pommel.”

He’s given you a light blade to start with, a weapon he could wield easily with only one arm, but you use both to bring the sword up, holding it perpendicular to the ground with some effort. 

“If I were to attack you,” Adrian begins, stepping so that he stands before you. “You’ll angle your legs to the side but keep your hips facing me.” He raises his sword with a casual flick of his wrist, a blend of his arm. “Block me.”

“What-”

Adrian’s sword flashes from your left, and instinctually you take a few staggering steps back and clutch your arms to your chest, keeping the blade more or less in front of you. At the very last second, you manage to bend your left elbow and essentially swat at his slow attack with all the force of a lazy kitten. It is not very effective.

Adrian withdraws the blade, lowers it to the ground, and folds his left arm behind his back. “Again. Reset your position, hold your ground, and hold your sword more firmly when you block me.”

You’ve barely had the chance to regain your footing when the sword swings again, and while your block is nowhere near what you could call expertly handled by any means, you do manage to create a slightly louder clang against metal when your swords collide and you stop Adrian’s advance. 

The only praise he gives you is a curt nod, a chance to reset, and then another attack, still from the same angle. Much like your magic lessons, Adrian has you repeat the same move several times until you master it, and then moves onto another. If he gave you more time to think, to speak, to do anything other than block his relentless, measured swings, you would try to argue with him, tell him how pointless you trying to learn to fight really is. After all, you really don’t intend to be around swords, and if Adrian really is trying to protect you against rogue men in seedy bars, surely learning how to stab someone with a dagger would be a better use of your time and energy?

Perhaps he doesn’t fancy the idea of being attacked by a dagger, not after the last humans to stay here had threatened him with such. But as Adrian gives you a break finally, he watches you with such cold calculation in his intelligent eyes that you know that there’s some other reason why he wants to teach you to fight with a sword. After all, he had brought daggers as well, and they sit in a heap with a light shield off to the right of you, evidently just waiting their turn. No, there is something else to these additional lessons, he’s being too methodical about them. If he had started the lessons when you had first entered the castle, when you felt like you had to step on eggshells around him, the reason you’d refrain from asking him why you’re doing this would have been out of fear. Now, it is simply because you cannot catch your breath for longer than it takes to block his next swipe.

He swings to your right. “Step into your counter,” he says, making to hit you from above. “Shove me off.”

It’s exhausting work, and by the end of it all, you are a panting, sweating mess who wants nothing more than to fall into a hot bath and melt away. You’ve managed to block him from eight or so angles with your sword, and he’d started getting faster with his attacks as the lesson progressed. At one point he’d caught you off guard by stepping quickly to your side to launch an attack from a different angle, and though he wasn’t intending to actually hit you, he had come close as you struggled to block him in time. 

“How is your ankle?” he asks flatly from where he stands a few feet away, watching you panting and crouched at rest with little mirth. He’s become almost… clinical, especially after all the tenderness he’d shared in the past few days with you. Does he regret those moments? That vulnerability? Is he trying to take it all back somehow?

Maybe you shouldn’t question him, not if he’ll just as likely be back to his normal self tomorrow regardless once he’s slept a little, had more time to process everything. 

Still, that doesn't mean you don’t deserve answers. 

“My ankle’s fine,” you say, swallowing the burning in your throat that comes with exertion and the remnants of a cold you’ve yet to recover from entirely.   
He merely nods again, releases his grip on the sword. “I’ll prepare lunch, then. Afterwards, we shall continue.”

He doesn’t even give you time to debate him on the statement, as he walks out of the room in swift strides, leaving his sword to hover innocently before you where he once stood. You watch him in confusion as he leaves without so much as looking back at you. For a brief moment, you wonder if you can somehow discern an answer from the sword, but decide against it. Instead, you drag yourself to collapse at one of the tall windows, staring off into the snowy world beyond. The snowfall isn’t too deep, the thickness of it equivalent perhaps only the length of your palm, but it still sprawls as far as you can see, glistening like crystals in the noontime sunlight. Once again, you’re struck with the beauty of the world you’ve found yourself in, fascinated as the change in seasons brings with it the change in landscape, the trees glittering in ice just as captivating as when they had been adorned in golden leaves. Vague recollections of crafted snow forts and fights and sledding downhill flicker at the corner of your memory, and you briefly wonder if Adrian had done anything similar. He’s so different, in so many ways, and yet, you understand him. Quite clearly. He’s young, been traumatized several times over, and left to figure it all out himself. For his own sake, you hope he keeps you around at least a little longer, if only so that he has someone to talk to when he feels like it. You can’t imagine how it must have been to cry about such things alone - he’d certainly not given you that treatment, and from how ready he was to comfort you, you’d gotten the sense that he needed someone to be kind to him long before you’d found him melancholically sitting in his destroyed room. You _know_ him, his little smiles and soft almost-laughs when you say something funny or bake cookies or touch his hair. His stone-faced coldness when something is wrong. 

And judging by the cool ice that surrounded his sharp, practiced motions, his barely-spoken instruction, something is very wrong. 

If only you knew what. He’s not pushing you away, but the tenderness is gone. Sharing a bed - in the most literal sense of the word - is gone. He’d not stayed in your room last night, not as a man or as a wolf. Waking up had almost been… disappointing. And then to come down and be ushered into swordfighting, of all things…

You need answers, if only so that you can help him get past whatever is bothering him this time. Be it more corpses on the lawn or some other killed relative, you’ll not leave him for it, and as you go to the kitchen to take what smells to be soup, you intend to tell him as much. 

But when you get there, soup is not the only thing waiting for you. Next to your usual place setting at the table, there is a stack of old, leather bound tomes that hold deep traces of dust and look distinctly unlike anything you’ve seen in the castle thus far. 

“What are those?” you ask, cautiously taking your seat as Adrian pulls it out for you. 

“More books.”

You flip open the unmarked cover of the nearest one. “On?”

“Vampires.”

The hush that falls over him after the admission is practically tangible. Never has he given you books on the subject - the closest he’s ever gotten to giving you information about his kind was the chat you insisted on while sick.

The first few pages are covered in a tight scrawl, but a quarter of the way into the book, diagrams are laid out. Anatomical drawings of vampires, their bones, their weak spots. “The heart” is emphasized many times over. 

“Where did you get these from?” Your voice sounds thin, fragile. You turn the page again, see something about “natural powers of persuasion.”  
“The Belmont hold.” Adrian has moved away from you without your notice, on silent steps. He leans against the kitchen counter, and you find that you have to crane your neck to catch a glance of him. “It’s filled with all sorts of books on how to kill me.”

“That’s… gruesome.”

He shrugs. “It’s what they did. To be fair, they knew more on the subject in some aspects than I do. Even my father did not tell me everything. They’ll be more help to you than any of the volumes here, written in dead languages that only Dracula remembered.”

You set the book down, feeling uneasy. You scoot the chair to the side, staring at Adrian until he looks at you, though his eyes do not quite meet yours. “While I do appreciate the information,” you begin, swallowing as you try to think of the best way to phrase things. “I can’t help but feel like you’re… like this is…”

Arian stiffens. “What?”

“I don’t know. Sword fighting? The best ways to kill vampires? Saying that this is supposed to help me when I’m on my own?”

He turns his head, leaving you with his profile instead, utterly unreadable. “It will.”

You fidget. “I… are you thinking of sending me off, then? Sometime soon?”

There’s a quiver in your voice at having finally asked the question that’s been playing on your mind all morning. You trust him not to be angry, not to shatter a wine glass like he had so long ago back when all this began. You just want to know what he’s thinking, if there’s another reason why he’s shutting you out.   
Adrian crosses his arms, staying silent for a long while. “You are healed. You haven’t so much as limped in a week. Why would you stay?”

_Why would you leave?_

“Aside from the fact that I like it here and have nowhere else to go?” you huff, a little more loudly than you mean to. 

“I can find you a place. A house in a village, somewhere you’ll be safe, far from here.”

Your voice starts to shake a little. “Will you come with me or am I supposed to walk there on my own? Ride a horse down unfamiliar pathways until I happen to stumble upon the village?”

Adrian tenses, but he still does not look at you. “I have a… way.” He shifts his weight a little. “You’ll not need to do more than take a step forward when the time comes. One step and you’ll be miles away.”

The soup still beside you grows cold. “So, you won’t be joining me, then.”

“I cannot leave this place unprotected.”

“Adrian-”

“There is too much knowledge, too many things to be raided or stolen. Dangerous things. It cannot go unguarded.”

“You really plan to just stay here and protect it all alone for the rest of your life?”

Adrian tilts his head down, hair further shielding his expression from view. “I don’t see any other alternative.”

_Let me stay_ , you think, almost feeling the magic you’ve cultivated so carefully over the last few weeks bubbling to the surface. _Let me help._

But some of that old, incessant doubt starts to creep back in, halts your voice. You are, after all, far from proficient in such crafts. If it came down to a fight, you’d likely be more of a hindrance than a help. Not that you expect to do much fighting regardless. Since that one night creature, it has been rather uneventful on the palace perimeter. All of Adrian’s patrols seem to have turned up without so much as a misbehaving rabbit, to the point where he’d shortened them as of late. In the last few days he hadn’t ventured outside at all, at least to your knowledge.

So why is he insisting that you leave? Why now?

“How long do I have?” you find yourself asking, feeling shallow and unsettlingly light. “Not before Yule, right? I’d hate to think of you all alone here on a holiday.”

That does get him to look at you, and he doesn’t quite mask the surprise on his face. “That’s… two weeks from now.”

_There is a lot to be learned in two weeks_ , you think. If you throw your all into it, study magic and sword fighting and vampires, maybe you can convince him to let you stay, show him that you are capable of helping to fend off the castle. In two weeks, maybe you can prove to be a warrior yourself, or at least, show promise for it. You doubt you’ll hold a candle to the two friends Adrian mentions every so often, but in time, you can get there. You just need those two more weeks, and once you’ve convinced him to let you stay longer…

You’ll think about _that_ later. Because selfish as it may be, you know resolutely that you don’t want to leave. You’ll work hard, ensure that you aren’t a bother to him, but you can be helpful. Even if he doesn’t ever want to take things further than friendship, you’ll manage. You’ll suppress your own desire just as you’ve been doing for weeks now. You’d much rather his company, platonic or otherwise, than some drooling village idiot who is just as likely to sell you off as the last one had been. 

Regardless, you blink all your thoughts away in a matter of seconds, feign ignorance. “Is it?”

Adrian nods, slowly, his eyes still locked on you. You wonder if he suspects your little half-formed plot, wonder if it will even work. 

You turn to dip your spoon into the soup which has lost its warmth, finding it to be rather palatable despite the chill. Of course, anything Adrian makes tastes good, so it isn’t much of a surprise to you. You can feel his eyes boring in the back of your head though, though now you resist turning back around to face him. 

“You can read the books, if you want,” he says from over your shoulder, clearing his throat a little. “And when you’ve finished I’ll find you more. We can practice magic tonight, more sword work in the morning.”

“Sounds fine,” you say as you stab a softened carrot in half with the tip of your spoon.

Adrian hesitates behind you, and if you’d looked, you’d see how his hands clench into fists at his sides before releasing with the defeated slump of his shoulders. “I’ll start searching for accommodations, then? In some small town west of here?”

It is a great effort to keep your responding tone light. Carefree. “If you wish.”

Another, uncomfortable silence. You take another spoonful of soup in your mouth, then another. Avoiding.

When you turn back around, Adrian has gone.


	22. Hourglass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi friends! Just a warning here - Reader has some self-worth / self-doubt issues in this one. Not anything major, but since this is a reader-insert I wanted to let you all know in case you don't need that negativity in your life rn. This chapter is a bit of a sad one, Adrian is still being dumb, but there is a bit in there towards the end which might help make up for it... 💛

Things don’t seem to improve much as the next few days tick by. You wake up before the sun, jolted from sleep by the sound of Adrian’s knuckles rapping against the door. Bleary-eyed, sore, and exhausted, you fumble around in the darkness for the pair of trousers you’d insisted on borrowing by the second sword lesson after tripping on your own hem twice and threatening to cut the damn thing off. You aren’t sure where the trousers originated from, just that they showed up outside your door the same evening, but they are far too big on you, and so the next step in your new morning routine is to fashion a belt from scraps of dress fabric, bringing the trousers to sit high on your waist. You tuck your white nightshirt into the trousers, tie your hair back with the same white cloth you wore to the market, and lace up your boots which become more and more worn in and comfortable with each lesson. Your ankle has healed entirely.

The first time you’d walked down the grand stairs and met him in the kitchen looking like that, Adrian’s stony mask had broken a little, replaced by an expression equally ambiguous, though distinctly more amused. He’d simply uttered a “you look well” before returning to his mug of tea and a new book with bindings telling of those from the Belmont hold. He’s taken to reading, recently, as have you, though you suspect that your books are of a completely different subject matter. Gone are the ramblings about domestic demonic pests, replaced by elegant scrawls and anatomical diagrams of all walks of vampire, differentiated mainly by power level. Stakes alone only seem to be fatally harmful to lower vampires, with high royalty being felled exclusively by much more intensive efforts. Adrian has not yet taken you to the hold, but with all the books being passed back and forth, you are almost certain that you must have read at least most of it. 

Adrian however, assures you that you have made only the barest of dents in the massive trove, and reminds you to watch your footwork as he swings his elegant weapon in your direction.

It soon becomes evident that you’ve painfully underestimated how long it takes to improve your swordsmanship. You enter the ballroom each morning full of bitter determination to prove yourself, to show Adrian that you are worth keeping around. Time and time again, you stumble, lose grip on the sword held in hands shaking from effort, from adrenaline. Time and time again, Adrian’s grace and stamina outmatch yours, and by the time late lunch has rolled around, you stalk off in frustration to drown your sorrows by the cold air of a cracked window and a block of aggressively bitten cheese while you recharge and bury your nose in another book, learning about vampire origins or spellcasting abilities while you wait for Adrian to summon you to the ballroom to practice magic of your own. 

_That_ pursuit, at least, is coming along more easily. Well, perhaps ‘easily’ is the wrong word - the spells are still quite difficult, and only becoming moreseo. Magic does seem to be less draining than it once was, however, a small boon. You attribute it to the magicians Adrian suspects in your lineage somewhere. Your proficiency in one skill over the other certainly has nothing to do with how distracted you get while sword fighting, while being so tantalizingly close to his body only to be ripped too quickly away as you are called into the next fighting stance. 

No, that has nothing to do with it. 

“You need to follow through more,” Adrian says on day five, once again easily sidestepping your attack. “You have the shapes down, yet you lack conviction.”

You blow a piece of hair from your forehead, wishing that he was tucking it behind your ear instead. “Forgive me if I don’t actually _want_ to hit you, Adrian,” you mutter, loosening your shoulders, rolling out your stiff neck.

“I’m sure that can be remedied,” he says. “I’ll simply stop going so easy on you.”

His eyes, while nowhere near their full capability for mirth, do tease, but even if they did not, you know the truth in his statement. He _is_ going easy on you. Almost pathetically so, and yet, you still cannot seem to get it right. You were honest though - you _don’t_ want to hit him. You don’t want to come anywhere close to hitting him or stabbing him or drawing blood or causing him pain. The daily duels are a test of your willpower, as you are faced with Adrian in his element, his body smooth and grateful as nothing of this world as he twists, steps aside, blocks your parries. As he shakes the golden hair from his narrowed eyes. As his soft lips press into a line, parting only when correcting your form. 

It's these lessons that solidify the notion in both your skull and your treacherous heart that you find Adrian attractive. _Very_ attractive. Not just his character, which you’ve already fallen for weeks ago, but on a baser, far more physical level. 

You stumble to the left on day eight as you realize just how badly you _want_ him. 

But then his shirt falls open, his scars staring back at you, reminders of all his pain thus far, whispering that his heart isn’t ready to love again, that his body is not for you. And, if you truly are leaving in less than a week on the day after Yule, it never will be.

It’s that latter thought which keeps you going, keeps you thrusting that damn sword forward and ducking and doing far more physicals labor than you have in months, perhaps even in years. Because you staying here hinges on whether you are willing to fight for it, for that privilege. Fight to be worthy of Adrian’s trust, perhaps, and on some seemingly distant occasion, potentially even his love. 

Or, at the very least, you can try and bring him happiness. He hasn’t had much of that, and especially not of late. Each passing day, his marble face grows colder, more somber. Twice you’ve snuck down to the kitchen in the dead of night for a snack (the relentless hunger a byproduct of all your strenuous activity and general nerves about the impending deadline) to find Adrian hunched over old journals in the study, illuminated by the fire with desperation in his eyes. 

If he hears you on those nights, watching him unravel, he doesn’t say anything. You don’t breach the subject yourself, and so long as you rise at his knock at your door the next morning, it doesn’t seem to matter. You haven’t any idea if or when he sleeps, and a sinking ache in your stomach tells you that he doesn’t. You can let him go about his worried studies in private, but you know the detriments of skipped sleep all too well. Adrian hadn’t let _you_ spiral into that madness yourself, and so on day ten, you return the favor. 

“Is your coffin not suiting your needs any longer?” you tease upon entering the kitchen and finding him nodding off over a mug of tea. 

He jerks his head off his hands, looking around fervently with a slight tinge to his cheeks. “I do not sleep in a coffin.”

You kick out a chair beside him, finding it much easier to do in trousers than it ever was in a dress. “Maybe you should, if it will help you sleep better.”

Adrian looks at you from the corner of his eyes, still. “And what makes you think that I’m not sleeping?”

What a loaded question. Do you admit to having spied on his private moments, to the way that you’ve become so attuned to his body language that you’re able to read his intentions before he acts on them? If the latter is as true as you know it to be, you’d think it would be more of a help when dueling.

“I’ve seen you every day for the past, what, two months?” You clear your throat. “How am I not supposed to notice when something is wrong?”

Adrian continues to stare at you for a moment before his gaze fixates on the table instead. You watch him swallow, set down his tea. “Nothing is wrong.”

“Adrian-”

The scrape of his chair against the flagstones cuts you off. “I’ll be in the ballroom, find me when you’ve finished.”

With a turn on his heel that seems far too fast, he’s making for the door in bounding strides you cannot hope to match, even with full functionality of both your ankles. Curious and somewhat unsettled by how flippantly you’ve just been brushed off, you walk to the stove and pour yourself a mug of tea, splashing some of the dark liquid on your white shirt and hardly seeming to much care. You really are becoming a wild thing. 

The tea is quite bitter when you bring it to your worried, bitten lips. 

Quite bitter indeed. 

Though not nearly as bitter as you are when, not half an hour later, you’ve managed to trip over your own feet twice, swear more times than you have in the past year, and managed to miss Adrian every. damn. time. you’ve swung at him. You’re tired, and annoyed, and mad, at Adrian for having the nerve to just stand there patiently and wait for you to pick yourself off the floor, at yourself for having even fallen in the first place and for ever daring to think that you could learn to brandish a weapon in two pathetically short weeks. 

Pathetic. 

_You_ are pathetic. No wonder Adrian’s trying to get rid of you so quickly. 

“Forget the sword,” he says, sighing. You throw the weapon across the width of the ballroom with all the force you can muster, the satisfying clank of metal on marble the only reward for your behavior, as Arian merely fixes you with a finely arched eyebrow. “I don’t think that was necessary.”

“Can you blame me?”

A soft huff of air. “No, I suppose I cannot.”

The ballroom is silent as you cross your legs, let your head hang in your hands, the sweat on the back of your neck telling of your efforts as air kisses it, leaving the damp parts of your hair unpleasantly cool against your flushed skin. 

“Perhaps a different method is in order,” he says quietly once he’s given you a few moments’ rest. “One that plays to your strengths and not mine.”

“Am I to sew a dress around you so that you can’t take two steps without falling flat on your face? Toss cinnamon and ginger cookies at you with reckless abandon while I run through the woods with a broken ankle?”

Adrian gives you a bemused, yet distant look as he crosses his arms and allows his sword to float at his side. “I don’t doubt that you would excel in those pursuits, but I had something more practical in mind.”

You merely cross your arms, still in a heap on the floor.

Adrian clears his throat. “In a bar fight, you’d want to refrain from magic, obviously, but if you were ever to encounter another night creature, I think it is only fair to use that to your advantage in a defense.”

“What are you saying?”

His boot scuffs against the floor where his eyes are trained, examining the marble as if it were a portal to somewhere else. “Use the spells to block my attacks. Get up, and when I come at you, deter me. Get me away.”

You feel your stomach drop. You’ve been hesitant in your swordplay thus far - you still don’t actually want to land a hit on Adrian, to hurt him. After it became apparent that he could handle whatever you threw at him in such regards, you’d loosened a little, but by his own admission, Adrian is not well versed in magic. You barely have control over your spells, the nature of them wild, unpredictable. There is a legitimate chance that one of you will end up hurt. 

But, it is also the only way you might be able to convince him to let you stay, prove your competence. 

You barely hear yourself agreeing as you stand on shaking legs, with shaking breath. Adrian waits with all the predatory patience he is capable of for you to dust off, rub your sweaty palms together. Mutter your first incantation.

And then it begins. Adrian’s advances on you are slower, at first. His feet leave the ground as he lunges forward, a loose swipe at your head with his sword causing you to duck and shoot off a controlled bit of hellfire a good foot to his left as you then swivel around to face him, ready for the next attack. Adrian lands for the briefest of moments with a feline grace before stalking towards you again.

“I know your aim is better than _that_ ,” he taunts, somehow managing to sound poised even so.

The flame circles back to your hands, ready to be thrust out again as you start to backpedal the length of the suddenly enormous ballroom. “Do you _want_ me to hit you in the face with a ball of fire? I think it’d be a shame if I-”

A flash of red, and Adrian is halfway in the air - a second later and he’s beside you, granting you just enough time to reflexively push the flames in his general direction and scamper off. When you look back, you see that you've managed to spread the fire into a boundary line on the floor which halts Adrian for only the briefest of moments, a quiet admiration in his strange, flickering eyes before he steps _into_ the flames and continues to pursue. 

“You can walk through fire?” you gasp, seeing him emerge completely unscathed. 

“Briefly.”

A glint of silver to your left. 

You change tactics, and with a panted “ _Spiritus autem lux_ ,” you cast up a blinding emission of white hot light which has Adrian squinting back and buys you more time to get away again. Your heart is pounding in your ears, but not so much out of fear, for once. Adrenaline, certainly, and while this exercise might be better suited to the woods or somewhere else where you would be able to find places to hide as your inherent instincts are so desperately begging you to do, there is something to be said for the game of cat and mouse you seem to have been thrust into. 

Admittedly, you might find it more enjoyable if Adrian wasn’t cutting it so close all the time - the next swipe in your direction, which you mostly avoid with a sloppy roll to the side, has the tip of his sword snagging the white square of cloth tying your hair back, leaving it now to fall distractingly in your face as you deflect once again.

“I taught you more than two spells,” he says through gritted teeth over the sound of his boots lightly hitting the tiles. “Use them.”

You send another burst of light his way, trying to think of what else to do. You’ve done fire, light. The only other spell you have any real practice in is that errant energy strike but thus far you’ve never managed to cast it correctly. 

You find yourself backed against a wall with Adrian quickly advancing, chin held low, eyes piercing you through his blond lashes. You feel the pulsing of magic in time to your heart, incessant at your fingertips, _begging_ to be used. 

Faster than you can think, your hands fly up. You murmur “ _potentia copia_ ” while you wince, feeling the energy surging forth, released.

And for a moment, your world goes silent. 

Adrian’s sword is flung from his grasp, clattering noisily away, though you do not hear it. All you hear is the muffled grunt that escapes his parted lips as the wall of brute force barrels into his chest. All you can do is watch in horror as his body is flung backwards, as it lands in a jumble of disoriented limbs against the other side of the room, as he crumples on the impact. 

As he doesn’t get up. 

As he doesn’t even _move_.

Your legs are weak, limbs are numb. Your mind fights itself, muddling your intentions. You want to run to him, to help him up, to apologize - to _instantly_ apologize. 

But if you get there and he still doesn’t move, doesn’t stir… doesn’t _breathe_.

“Fuck,” your voice says, though it feels different. “ _Fuck_ , Adrian-” 

You take one step in front of the other, trying to run, to sprint, to push through your fear as you had that day in the woods so very long ago, but with each stride you take, it is as though you are leaving a piece of your body behind. Your hands are still up against the wall, your stomach started dragging along the floor behind you long ago. Your ears have gone missing, ringing, useless, your arms and legs dead weight.

As you near him, as you note that utter stillness to his prone body, the only thing that is left of you is your beating heart and the lump of stone in your throat. Your hands feel so distant as they reach out, as they tremble for his shoulder, as you peer around to see his face, to try and read him, to rouse him. 

A telling flash of silver from the very corner of your eye - 

And the next thing you are aware of is the air being knocked from your lungs as you are lifted and pinned against that ballroom wall with enough force to rally together all your dismembered organs and rattle them back into place. Your hands tense at your sides as your arms are held immobile by an iron grip around your biceps, your stomach jolts awake and your legs stiffen as something wedges between them. Funnily enough, your heart and your voice, the two pieces which you’d managed to cling to just moments ago, are nowhere to be found as your eyes meet Adrian’s twin depths of molten gold, heated enough to scorch your soul and still very much alive. 

“Such sentimentality will kill you,” he says, the cold silver of his sword the only thing separating his face from yours as it hovers midair directly between your quivering throats, each heaving breath that you take tempting the blade to cut on every inhale. “No vampire is ever going to play fair, there’s no need for us to pretend otherwise while practicing.”

Your mind is still reeling with the fact that Adrian isn’t dead by your own hand, your lungs still burning and sputtering for air. You want to cry, to hold him, still to apologize, despite him clearly being fine. But he’s tricked you, he _made_ you feel dangerous, cruel. He’d tricked you.

And at the realization, a little vein of anger bubbles up to the surface, just ripe enough to make you swallow all your terms of endearment and affection and turn to something much more argumentative as all the insanity of the situation you’ve been goaded into hits you like a brick wall. “But I’m not _going_ to be fighting vampires, am I? I’m going to go live in a cottage somewhere where my biggest problem will be an occasional wolf trying to eat my sheep if all goes according to plan.”

“If you’re so certain, why agree to all these lessons?”

You aren’t going be the first to admit it. Not aloud. 

“Oh, I don’t know,” you say, patience at such a charade wearing thin. “You tell me.”

As soon as the words are out, you know you’ve said them wrong. Instead of matching Adrian’s cold, sour tone as you had so adamantly intended to with all the pent up bitterness finally bursting behind your words, your still impaired from impact voice is thick, raspy. Breathy.

Sneeringly, bitingly... seductive.

Adrian’s eyes narrow, his own voice no more than a growl as he shakes his head, clears a thought from his mind just a few moments too late. “Do the spell again and push me off.”

Remarkably, the disorientation and the anger in your brain begins to dissipate, ushering in the briefest moment of clarity sparked by the peculiar inflection with which he begins to speak. You are suddenly very aware of the now unrestrained hair falling messily around your face, of the way your chest is arched up with Adrian’s pressing your arms into the wall and how much the nightshirt has drooped and shifted around your frame, pulling tightly in places and nearly falling off in others. How his knee is angled _just so_ between your legs that it pushes up into you and keeps you anchored to him, his thigh eclipsed by the both of yours as your limbs become hopelessly tangled without your usual dresses or sense of propriety to keep them all separate. His hips, his trim torso, his strong chest - all mere inches at most from your own, touching like something clandestine everywhere else. So, so very close. 

To his credit, Adrian seems to be noticing you at that precise moment himself, his eyes flickering over your body as you bore a hole into his clavicle with the intensity of your attempt to keep your gaze from wandering. 

Despite the aching closeness and the way you can still smell pine trees lingering on his skin as proof of the most recent patrol, the way that you’ve had dreams much like this where you are less than a breath apart, one can only tolerate so much wall against their backs. You shift a little, which proves to be a mistake. Adrian does not release his grip, and the slight movement of your hips against this leg provides a sensation that is not, in any way, appropriate for this moment. Not when your head has begun to spin again, as you try to remember why you’re mad at him. Why you're fighting the blush to your cheeks. Why you suddenly feel so ill and cold and burning up at the same time, why your heart seems to have launched itself across the ballroom and as such is no longer able to console your racing mind or errant thoughts. 

Amidst all the jumbled, frayed signals in your brain, amidst the effort to stifle a surprised moan as you try and kick your legs into the ground to raise yourself off him, the only thing you can think to do is meet his equally ambiguous, almost clouded gaze, and say in a voice that is barely a whisper and no less sultry for it; “I don’t _want_ to push you away.”

Your eyes flicker between the both of his, asking him to understand, to read the words for what they are, what they mean. _I don’t want to leave, I don’t want to abandon you. I don’t want to go back to some meager little cottage and live the rest of my life alone and in fear of men who are rough and cruel. Men who know nothing of life, of magic, of science. Of me_. 

Adrian holds himself together, valiantly, for the first few moments. Then he inhales, tilts his head down. His brow furrows, his lips frown. His forehead skims the top of yours, but he does no more. 

“ _Please_ ,” he says, the sound somehow both jagged and crushingly soft. “ _Please_ push me away. Before I do something truly idiotic.”

Your shoulders soften, your ever present ache of longing returns to the forefront of your mind, heightened and stimulated, the loneliness so very near to being snuffed out. “Adrian, I-”

“You still have my blade to your throat, Creature of Prey.” An edge has returned, a harshness that you can only hope is feigned. “Push. me. Off.”

You’ve found your heart again, you think, feeling it flop miserably across the ballroom and back into the aching cavity of your ribcage. _Prey. Prey. Weak. Useless. Unlovable. Prey._

Truly idiotic, that someone like him could love someone so pitiful as you.

“Fuck you then,” you bite, holding back a whimper. “I’m not moving.”

For a long moment, you think that nothing more will happen. That this is how the both of you shall spend eternity, trapped and tense and in each other's arms but not quite close enough, not through whatever last barrier is keeping you apart. You feel tears coming as you realize that he will never let you stay, that you are to leave in only a few days' time and that there is nothing you can do about it. Before you can see if Adrian is as close to breaking wide open as you are, he pushes off you, leaving a ghastly chill where the warmth of his body once stood. You can do nothing but stare at his back as he makes a beeline out the ballroom doors on quick, firm strides.

It isn’t until he’s reached the door that he extends his arm back and has the sword follow him, finally releasing you from your makeshift prison, the place you had so desperately wanted to escape from only moments ago. 

And yet, given your freedom, you find that all you are capable of doing is letting your knees buckle as your back slides down the wall, as your shaking limbs wrap around each other, fabricating the sensation of closeness. 

You’ve lost it. Ruined your one last chance to prove yourself worthy, useful. 

You might as well not even stay until Yule at this point. Why drag out the inevitable? Is it not better to just get it over with, to rip yourself apart from him the same way he’d reset your ankle that very first, fearful night - with little warning and the best of intentions? 

You aren’t sure. You aren’t sure of anything anymore, alone in that huge, half-demolished room that startlingly reflects the state of your life, your mentality. Barren and lonely and full of trauma, of destruction. Of pain. 

And, once realized, you cry a little harder for it.


	23. Resolve

His bed is too big. Too wide. Too empty. It’s always been, but now more than ever. A great, gaping chasm of down comforters and soft pillows that make him feel as though he’s going to be swallowed whole, free falling down into some abyss or another, jolted awake only seconds before he hits the bottom of said pit with a crunch. 

He’s had this nightmare before, however, and it is nothing new. Nor is his quick ripping away of the sheets, the lightheadedness as he sits up, breathes in, tries to make sense of the murky world around him.

“Adrian?”

_You_ are a new presence, though. Lying beside him in that too big bed, your nightshirt pushed down over one shoulder, your hair rumpled with sleep. 

_Where has he seen you like this before?_

“Bad dream,” he finds himself muttering, eyeing you warily. _When did you join him? Had you snuck in while he slept?_

_Does it matter?_

Your face, still soft with sleep, tilts. Smiles. “I’m sorry, love. Come here, let me help.”

It is too soon to burrow beneath the covers again, not with the sweat of the dream still clinging to his skin, the hair plastered to his neck suffocating him, weighing him down like ropes slick with mud. But your arms reach out to him, beckoning so softly, so gently. Like a warm breeze to brush all the pain away. Feeling light, still, and yet also impossibly heavy, he feels himself fall once more, only this time it's into your arms, somewhere finite and familiar and safe in a way that the dark pits of hell that beckon him in sleep are not. His head finds your shoulder, your fingers find his hair. This is peace, content. Bliss.

And yet…

“What’s wrong?” you ask, already knowing the answer.

Adrian can feel the rumble of your voice in your chest, smell the honey you put in mugs of tea lingering on your lips. 

“I can't hear your heartbeat,” he realizes, feeling less alarmed than he probably should. “The world has gone silent.”

He doesn’t need to look up at you to know that you’re smiling. He can sense it, somehow. “I must admit that I am not fully here.”

_So this is still a dream, then_ , he thinks, already feeling the edges of his vision start to turn as he stirs in his real bed, the one that _is_ empty and vast and unbearable.

“Not so fast,” you warn, gripping his biceps tightly the way he’d done to you what must have been - “don’t start thinking logically, Adrian, or this won’t last. Forget everything else, and focus on me.”

“How could I not,” he blurts in the same way one tends to when sleep talking. “Everything I do - everything I now _am_ , it is for you. Well, the physical form of you. The real you.”

You smile, run a soft hand lazily along his scalp. “This dream might be the closest you get to real. You know that, right?”

“Because you’re leaving?”

“Because you’re sending me away.”

Adrian feels himself frown, corporeal or not. “As a figment of my woefully defunct imagination, you must know the reasoning - the necessity behind it all.”

He knows your smile falters, that your eyes have turned serious. Around him, the bedroom has started to fade, leaving an inky blackness speckled with only a few stars in its wake. 

“I do. But the real me doesn’t. She won’t know unless you tell her.”

Adrian nestles into your neck. There should be a pulse there to tempt him, taunt him. Make him feel like he did when he stood over you in the ballroom, staring down at your rumpled hair, flushed cheeks. The raw emotion behind your shining eyes as you looked at him, saw him as if he were fragile enough to be felled by a mere energy conjure. As if you’d almost just lost him and couldn't bear to live with yourself a second longer had he really not woken up from his feigned injury on the floor.

It had been cruel of him, that false injury. Especially since he was not wholly oblivious to the dangerous sentiments you were careful to show then and to control and hide away ever since. But it had been necessary. Always, necessary. To think, someone like you could offer something like that to a creature such as himself - and he'd _turned it down_. For you. 

You will always come first to his own desires, his own confused, terrified thoughts of tangled sheets and limbs and all the reasons why such a scene should never come to fruition, but that sense of duty acting as justification for his own actions does not soften their blows, nor the pain of doing the right thing by you even if you cannot see it now, perhaps never will see it. 

You test his resolve constantly, with soft smiles and steeled determination to do something he can't quite grasp yet. Up against that wall he felt even more conflicted - for sending you out into the world is akin to sending a hapless lamb to the slaughter. He knows what is out there. You, despite all your learning and listening and avid attention, do not. You cannot properly defend yourself, cannot possibly survive on your own when the real monsters come out to play, but yet, the thought of you staying feeds a desire growing dep within him a desire which claws at his shredded heart and begs it to beat once more. 

But with the target that he will always be, to stay is an even greater risk, and one he cannot under any circumstances allow you to take. He cares for you too much. Knowing this, he'd taken upon himself the task to find a place for you. The transmission mirror proved to be capable of at least some good after all. It is on the western border of Germania, and all of Wallachia’s problems - all of Adrian’s own - will have no reason to follow you there. It is the farthest from his home and himself as he could find where the culture would not seem to foreign, a place not known for its vampiric population. 

“You should tell me, you know,” you say, distant now, fading into the stars yourself. "All of it."

A choked sound comes from his throat, raw and terrible. “I _can’t_.”

“Then I will leave. And you will have to face everything on your own.”

Some churlish, argumentative thought springs to mind, some last effort to appear unscathed, unbothered. “I can always hibernate until it happens. Crawl into another coffin and forget about this world until it breaks open the lid.”

The last remnant of you - your smile, ripples away into darkness. “You won’t forget me. I’ll become just another ghost, another dismal memory to haunt you in these halls.”

“I can live with that,” he lies poorly, broken voice speaking only to the nothingness stretched before him. Speaking to emptiness, loneliness. The rest of his tragic eternity, for once you’ve gone, there will be no others. He can go on living however long he has left in his own personal hell alone if it means you get away. If you are safe.

When Adrian wakes up, not at all comforted or convinced by such a thought, it is to nothing more than a tear stained pillow and the very empty bed.


	24. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow... you guys ever just... have a _week_?
> 
> I have. This evening was the first moment I've been able to stop frantically working since Saturday morning. I feel like I've aged 10 years. I just got in from a lovely 2 hour fall walk in which my aim was to get hopelessly lost amongst mossy cottages and damp earth covered in yellow leaves. The sky was gray with promise of rain. I got wonderfully, entirely lost in it.
> 
> It was great. 
> 
> Anyway, if you've been waiting for a response to a comment you so lovingly left me on the previous chapter - fear not, I have not forgotten and will get there soon. 
> 
> I hope you all are doing well <3

You stop all training after what you refer to as the “ballroom incident.” You feel no thrum of magic at your fingers, no inspiration whatsoever as the inevitability of your situation hits you full on. Previously, you’d held out some distant hope - the truth seemed so far away, so unlikely. 

But now it’s upon you. _You are leaving_. And what is there left to do but to accept such a fact? You’ve tried to impress Adrian with your magic, with your sword fighting - something which is so obviously foolish to you now. When that didn’t work, when you were fighting with your emotions, with your terror and relief and lust all at once, you’d done the only other option. You’d let him stay close, near. Hinted that you liked that closeness, that you liked _him_. One final attempt to get him to let you stay. You knew what you were doing, what you looked like with your rumpled hair and exposed skin, how your breathy voice was not as much due to the impact of your back against the wall as it was from his knee pushing against your core. You’d insinuated, begged him to let you stay if only out of love, if only to let you foster and nurture that feeling until you’re drunk off its magic. Because you know, you _know_ , that this is love. That nothing you’ve felt before - not for that one awful farmboy back home - was even remotely close to what you feel for Adrian. _That_ feeling you can never hope to match, never hope to find anyone as cunning or caring or beautiful. You’d shown him all that a hundred times over. 

And he’d turned away regardless. 

You’d cried for an hour in that ballroom. Silent tears so that he wouldn’t come find you, so that you wouldn’t have to verbalize your heartbreak. You just sat there, back against the wall, staring straight ahead, and letting tears fall like a garden stream trickling down stone, taking one gasping breath after the other until your eyes were swollen and your mind was tired. 

You’d skipped dinner, instead going to your room, drawing a hot bath and trying to forget the feel of his hands working the blood out of your hair or holding you tightly, staying curled in the tub until the water grew as cold as your heart became. 

When you went down for breakfast the next day, it was in your blue frock, a dress you hoped conveyed your message of surrender, of defeat. An outfit you cannot sword fight in, cannot readily cast defensive magic in.

As it happens, Adrian wasn’t around for you to show anyway. He did not knock on your door, and was not in the kitchen when you entered. The sole sign of his existence that you saw was a note on faded stationary that read simply “study.” You weren’t sure if it meant that Adrian himself was in one of the many castle studies, or if he was asking you to study in his absence. You had pocketed the note, fixed yourself a small cup of tea, for you didn’t think you could stomach anything more, and made your way to where you assumed you would not disturb Adrian from whichever castle cranny he’d holed himself up in to avoid you. 

Was he really so repulsed by what you’d offered yesterday that he’s decided to ignore you entirely? Did you trigger something, his trauma related to bedroom eyes and gasped words, even though he’s the one who put you in that state?

You aren’t sure. 

What you do know, is that every day since then, you’ve taken to the laboratory. Poured over anatomy books, memorized diagrams. Retaught yourself all the uses for dandelion tea and that topical clove oil can be used as a muscle relaxant. Whatever seems of use to your future self holed away in a cabin until winter has thawed. All this, you do alone. In the last three days before Yule, you see Adrian only in passing. You’ve both come down restlessly at night, and several times, you get the sense that he’s exited a room only seconds before your own entrance. He does not restrict you, does not leave a cryptic note asking you to please stop interrupting him during his own studies. You’ve found one or two books on vampires that looked to be historical records and geographic maps hastily shoved to the side, and so you know Adrian is doing studying of his own, even if you have no idea what sort of studying it is, what it could pertain to. You simply walk into the library, take a new book on plants or medicines, and head about your way, vacating the room for Adrian to return to. 

The whole thing is rather silly. Upsettingly so. How on earth have you gone from sharing the same bed on occasion to _this_ , to living with a ghost while the pendulum of time swings away over your shoulder like the axe of an executioner waiting to make the final cut, to deliver the final blow?

The night before the eve of Yule, you’ve stolen away to the kitchen. Cinnamon clings to the air around you, shaved ginger joining suit. You’re baking again, whether because you’re in a good mood or because you hope that doing the familiar action will spur such a thing on, you cannot rightfully say, but the idea of it all seemed appropriate. In your old life, before being kidnapped or taken in afterwards, you always baked on this night. On occasion you’d venture into the town square the following evening, contributing a bundle of cookies to the annual revelries before finding a nice quiet corner to sit in and listen to the local band consisting of two dueling fiddlers drunk off their asses compete the whole night through. Yule was always a drunken disaster of a celebration where you once lived, and while you didn’t partake in that particular pleasure for fear of waking up somewhere you should decidedly not be (though in hindsight it didn’t seem to matter much,) it was always amusing to see how long you could go unnoticed for amidst all the other town girls who were much more excited about wandering hands and sloppy kisses.

Your favorite thing about those nights was the long walk back home. You’d leave early while the sky was still wholly dark, and trod along the well worn pathways until they petered off, became overgrown. Led to your little farm way off in the distance where your flickering lamplight blended in with the stars dotting the sky above the hillside. That walk, surrounded by firmamental diamonds on the darkest night of the year, was your true cherished part of the evening. You looked up at them as if they held all the answers to life’s mysteries. 

_If only they’d been able to tell me those secretes_ , you think, slamming the dough harshly onto the countertop. Secrets like this whole messy affair with a half dhampir and unrequited love. Pining. A heart in the process of breaking. 

_Slam._

You sigh. 

_Knock._

“Is now a bad time?”

You’ve never whipped your head up faster than you do at that moment, and you don’t even consider that you should have probably played things a little more nonchalantly until you’re facing Adrian and trying desperately to contain your shock. His eyes flicker to your cheek, and you hastily make to wipe a smearing of cinnamon off it. 

“No, now is not,” you say, feeling and sounding quite hollow. 

Adrian nods, swallows. Does not leave the threshold. “There’s one town left to venture to before I’ve visited them all. I can rent a cart, fill it with supplies for your new cottage. Fabric, food… rolling pins.”

You let go of the wooden cylinder you didn’t realize you’ve been gripping like a weapon against your own racing thoughts with a hint of embarrassment . “That’s… considerate of you,” you wince. “When should I plan to go?”

He blinks for a moment before shifting his weight. His hand comes up to rub at the back of his neck, and you’re struck by how tired he seems all of a sudden. “You wish to accompany me?”

“Oh, were you not offering-”

“Far be it for me to stifle you within these walls any longer than necessary.”

“... So you _weren’t_ offering.”

Adrian’s brow wrinkles tightly. “Please. Come,” he manages through gritted teeth. “I would… appreciate your company. Come along and make me seem less suspicious at least, you’re rather good at that.”

The real question would be if the both of you are to go as a married couple again, but judging from the distance Adrian maintains even now, you doubt such a thing would be wise to discuss. 

You wring your messy hands before you, the palpable tension thick enough to grasp.

“I- we can venture out tomorrow evening,” he says, eyeing the work before you. “I’ll not disturb your baking.”

_God, please disturb my baking_ , you think. _Push all the baking aside and hoist me up on the table instead. Tell me that you want me, that you love me, that you’ll never let me go._

But, he does not. He bows his head, curtly turns on his heels, and walks away. 

You briefly wonder if smashing your hand open with the rolling pin will buy you more or less time at the castle. It would make sewing impossible until it healed…

You return to the dough, pressing into it with more force than is really necessary as your stomach reaches your brain’s train of thought with a jolt - as you realize all the implications of going out with Adrian on the eve of Yule. If your little village had gotten drunk off their asses, you can’t imagine what an actual, established town looks like. You likely won’t even be able to see the stars you so cherish amidst all the torchlight and merrymaking. 

You cut the cinnamon ginger cookies into squares, give them an imprinted “x” running corner to corner. It is the easiest method you know of to make them look presentable when finished. 

Because _something_ might as well be easy. Your night, and likely the next, most certainly will not be.


	25. Holiday Market

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my loves, I'm sorry this is a bit late - it was another hectic week for me and I wanted to make sure I had the time and mental clarity to properly edit this long of a chapter. So, here are 6,400 words or so, all of which are incredibly flowery and extra and hopefully not too terribly sad.
> 
> I do hope you enjoy !

You’re overthinking things. You _know_ you are. You know that no matter how many times you twist and braid at your hair, no matter how many ribbons you thread through it, no matter how many berries and beets you stain on your lips and your cheeks nor how much charred ash you mix into a salve to darken your lashes, none of it will make much of a difference in the end. Not where Adrian is concerned anyway. 

Still, you persist, even against all evidence telling you such an endeavor is pointless at least as far as wooing Adrian goes, so it is likely that the predominant part of you that facilitates such a seemingly pointless act is doing so out of self-motivation instead. Perhaps you simply want to look nice, for today. Remind yourself as much as Adrian what you are when you put effort into your appearance, when you can be bothered to brush out your hair and wear something other than loaned, ill-fitting trousers. 

And so. You persist.

You’ve braided your hair up and around your face in a half-crown, letting the rest of it fall against your neck, shaped by braids dampened and then slept in and combed out into loose, uniform waves. You seem younger, somehow, when it is all done. When your reddened lips press together as you scrutinize your appearance one final time. When your darkened lashes turn away from your reflection in the window, as you still have not seen an actual mirror in months. There don’t seem to be any in the palace, though you’ve yet to find a definitive answer to whether or not vampires cast reflections in all the readings that you’ve done. 

Your legs are swathed in some of those knitted socks you purchased last time you went to the market, along with the boots which have now become quite comfortable and molded to the shape of your feet. You wear a shift under your blue dress for added warmth, but you can’t help but worry your hands will be quite cold. As you sit on your window seat, fiddling with your hair and waiting for Adrian to arrive or perhaps for the motivation to go downstairs yourself and wait for him, you see bits of snow amidst the bare trees, sparklings of frost. Winters of the past had been difficult, living alone, watching your dwindling supply of firewood, calculating how long you had before it ran out. On a few very desperate nights, you’d slept in the sheep pens, lulled off by the soft bleats and near stifling heat. In the castle, your winter thus far has been occupied by fighting and reading, yes, but also with safety. Food. Company, however recently brief. You imagine yourself somewhere else, holed away in some small cottage with nothing to keep you busy, nothing to distract you from all the forbidden knowledge sure to rattle around in your head at each creak of the floorboards beneath you, each snap of twigs in the world outside. 

What on Earth _will_ you do?

You’ve been asking yourself ever since you officially gave up on lessons, gave up on the hope that this life you’ve managed to salvage and live from the past few months would last. Adrian had asked you before where you intended to go once your time here had passed. You’d not known then. You certainly don’t know now, resigned as you are to this being your final night under this roof, your final night wandering these halls. 

It’s all starting to really sink in when you hear that familiar rap at the door. You get up, compose yourself. Swallow the lump in your throat. 

And trudge morosely to the door. It feels heavy when you swing it inwards and open, as if the castle itself doesn’t want you to leave either. 

“Ready, then?” You ask, mustering up some feeling into your voice as you look upwards towards him with a sigh. 

There’s a brief moment where he just stares at you with an expression you’ve long since stopped trying to decipher. “You’ve… your hair is different,” he says lamely, blinking the strange stiffness away. 

Without thinking, your hand reaches up to pet at your braids as if it hadn’t just spent an hour trying to get them right. “It’s… I mean it _is_ a holiday of sorts. I don’t know, I just....”

“You misunderstand.” He waves your doubt away. “It - _you_ look lovely.”

There’s a surprised bit of color rushing to your face that is decidedly not from the berries you’d pressed into the skin there. As you look down rather quickly, sucking in your cheeks out of not knowing what to say or do or feel, you find that Adrian’s gotten himself together nicely as well. There’s the typical black trousers and white shirt combination you’re used to, but he’s found different boots to match his jacket, both capped in fine gold detail, and there’s something slightly done up about his own hair and the way it curls ever so slightly at the ends. He hardly ever looks less than perfect as it is, but you can’t help but wonder if he too made some sort of particular effort on account of the festivities. 

“Thank you,” you say, feeling small.

Adrian gives no further response other than stepping aside so that you may walk into the hall yourself. You do, shutting the door behind you. 

The distance to the main hall is covered in silence. You are reminded of all the times Adrian has carried you down the impossibly large staircase, all the times you’ve walked down it yourself ready for early morning training sessions. It is quite strange indeed, then, to be sharing the steps, feeling so close together and yet so very far away as you descend a foot apart, shoulder to shoulder. Neither of you speak, though this is perhaps for the better, as you aren’t even sure what you would say when all you can think of is ' _please don't make me go_.'

Futile, of course, but logic, doing as it always does in times of strife, has abandoned your senses and left you to drown in yearning for a love which remains unacted upon.

Your cloak is waiting for you on the railing at the bottom of the stairs - evidently, Adrian has moved it from the servants’ exit. He must mean to cross the main threshold, then, sensibly so as it faces the opposite cardinal direction. Adrian pauses only long enough for you to wrap the heavy wool around your shoulders, set the clasp along your clavicle. Then he continues forward, walking in measured, graceful strides towards the absolutely massive front doors. You’ve never really taken in the enormity of them, the looming height. You can’t even begin to fathom how much they must weigh. All that, coupled with the apparent sealant charm… it really is a wonder that you ever managed to get inside.

The great doors swing open of their own accord, and you are hit with the dead, unmoving coldness of winter.

You meet it unflinchingly. 

“How far to the town?” you ask as the both of you stand in that space between worlds, between the warmth of the palace and the bitter chill of regions beyond.

“A few miles.”

“Can you fly to it?”

A shimmer of gold as his hair shifts over his shoulders, as he turns to look at you. “Would you like to?”

His eyes search the both of yours. What he is looking for, you cannot say. You cannot read him like you used to, cannot sense his intentions. 

“Yes, if you’re so willing. I doubt that the chance to fly will ever arise again, for me. I... want to know what it feels like.”

Perhaps that is too much of an explanation for such a simple request, too much of yourself put on display for a chapter of your life so quickly approaching its end. But, it is one last final request of Adrian. One you hope he doesn’t deny. 

His eyes roam to your hair, and his lips twitch ever so subtly. “If you wish. Though I cannot promise that your hair will remain intact for the duration of the journey.”

You merely shrug, try to smile. It would be a small price to pay for that weightless experience, but you’d taken the precaution of weaving your braids quite securely with threads to hold it all together. You have no concerns there, just like you have no concerns of him dropping you along the way. It simply won’t happen. 

“It will be faster than the last time, when I took you out of the inner castle,” he warns, reaching around your body in an action that is so very familiar, scooping you up to cradle in his strong arms. “You should probably hold onto me.”

_Happily._

You wrap your arms around his neck as he angles you against him, swathed in your cloak to prevent it from flapping up and into his face, no doubt. This aching closeness again…

You savor what you can of it, that bittersweet embrace. He pauses only for a moment, looking at you again via a simple downflick of those unearthly eyes, something unsaid lingering once more on his lips. There’s always something he wants to say, it seems. But he never verbalizes those thoughts, and you’ve given up all hope that he ever will. 

Like every time before, he just shakes his head slightly. He bends his legs, tightens his grip around your waist and knees, and in a moment, you’re off. 

The full force of winter reaches around you as Adrian pushes into the white-tipped world, clawing sharply at your cheeks and hair and anywhere your body is not covered by his. Whatever little yelp of surprise you try to suppress gets lost in the winds of a higher altitude, as you rise above the ground freed of any and all discerning features beneath the snow. Your stomach sinks as you rise up, as your wide, sparkling eyes roam the trees and then catch on the painted skies beyond, their hues of faded blue and muted pink saluting farewell to sunlight on the shortest day of the year. 

Adrian eases into a halt once you’re above the treeline, and yet you still grip him like you’ll be flung ever upwards regardless of if he stops. You feel so incredibly light as you stop ascending, as the world around you once again becomes still. Your heart flutters like the wings of a butterfly, frantically and sporadic and yet, so full of joy, drunk off the beauty of it all. For a moment you forget about leaving. The weight of it all no longer presses down on you, no longer restrains you. You are out of the castle, and for that fleeting and spectacular moment, you are both free.

“Do you still want to do this?” he asks, as if your silence unnerves him.

You only manage a nod, a half smile. It doesn’t seem to be enough to abate his worry, though, so you clear your throat. Try to gather your thoughts into something coherent. “Yes,” you say against the wind picking up. “Very much.”

Something like a sigh on his soft lips, and then you’re off again, held so close and so tightly against Adrian’s chest that you are almost as one, twisting around the tallest trees and descending lower as you get closer to the village. The woods _do_ whip by you, this time, though you are certainly not bound, not restrained. Not by Adrian. In fact, that almost seems to be the problem, doesn’t it? For whatever reason, you don’t seem to be worth keeping. Not by the farmboy, and not by him. 

That particularly sad realization hits you just as Adrian’s feet touch the ground in a clearing of woods where the faintest lights of a town trickle in between the dead tree trunks looming above you like spears driven into frozen earth. He wordlessly sets you down, holds onto you until your boots touch the snow and the feeling returns to your uncertain limbs with a shiver. 

“I am… glad that we got to do that,” you say, rearranging your cloak and straightening your skirts. “I think I quite like flying.”

“Then I am sorry we cannot do it further.”

A nagging voice in the back of your head says that you _could_ do it further, that if you stayed, Adrian could fly you to the top of the castle and into the stars you so cherish.

You shake the thought away, grasping his hand in your own and walking confidently forward so as to conceal the tears starting to well up in your eyes. 

He offers no resistance whatsoever, and you lead the full way to the village, picking up the scent of roasting sugar and the sounds of plucked violins as the terrain beneath you turns from snowy grass to uneven flagstones. 

“This is… rather more lively than I was anticipating,” Adrian remarks as a small child clutching a stick shooting a crackling starburst at the end runs past, giggling wildly. Three other children follow soon after in equal fashion, and you realize that you can’t remember the last time you’ve heard such laughter ringing in the air, such purity. 

Maybe there is a life for you, outside the castle. Maybe it won’t be so bad. 

Across the street, a woman turns up her nose at the playing children, making a remark to a haughty companion. 

Perhaps not, then. 

“It _is_ Yule,” you say with a sigh, trying to refocus. “You can’t blame them for celebrating that.”

Adrian turns his head to you, something sad in his softened eyes. “No, I don’t blame them whatsoever. I just can’t fathom where all that spirit comes from.”

“What, happiness?”

“...Mirth, I think. The satisfaction brought about by simple things, joy unburdened by strife. Innocence.”

He stares after the playing children as they disappear round the corner, and though you know his childhood was better than most, happier than most… you can’t help but wonder if he’s always been a little lonely, a little too in his own mind. A little too observant of the world around him to ever just enjoy it. You have no idea what he’ll be like when you’ve left, but you cannot imagine he’ll be very cheerful.

Your eye catches on a colorful banner in the direction the children came from, and a memory jumps to your mind, spurred on by the time of year and the smell of roasting chestnuts growing stronger on the breeze. 

“Adrian,” you say, realizing you’re still holding his hand and pulling it a little more tightly. “Have you ever been to a holiday market?”

He blinks. “A what?”

“We had a small one, where I lived. This town is big enough to be far more exciting, I’m sure. It’s not much different than a normal market, but there’s usually ample ale and more baked goods to go around than you’d expect. I’d say they’re quite fun.”

Adrian stares off at the tents with a look of speculation. “I’ve never really been one for ale.”

_The ale isn’t for you_ , you feel like yelling at him. _It's for me, to get me through this god awful night_. 

“Well like I said, there’s more than just ale.”

Adrian allows himself to be tugged along behind you yet again as you head for the sounds of merriment, chasing that oh-so-elusive mirth. When you finally make it to the town square, amidst the bustle of all that holiday spirit, even you have to halt for a moment to take it all in. You’ve never seen so many people in one place before - so many colors of fabric wrapped around fine necks of elegant women, of furs draped across broad shoulders. This is no mere farming village - it is a true town, one wealthy enough to spend the time and money required to import resources from far off lands and southern seaports. There’s a table of vivid, fragrant oranges to your right, stacked amongst other fruits you do not know the names of. Further down, nestled between stalls of harvests of wheat and barley, is a baker’s stand with steaming cinnamon rolls garnering up an eager line. The candied chestnuts you smelled upon entry are roasted near that, and even further along there’s a confectionary stand. To the left of you, lining the square, are sellers peddling all sorts of wares - woodcarvings, accessories, furniture. There are dozens of stalls lining the plaza, and a great number of them are done up in wreaths and festive ribbons. 

It seems so easy to get caught up in it all for the night - to disappear behind an evergreen branch tied to a post and become part of the scene, part of the sea of people milling about and laughing and kissing their lovers, clinking glasses and nestled by the sense that the rest of their lives will be carried on in much the same fashion. Happily, and in good company. Together. 

Not alone, not separated and living in fear of night creatures coming round, of defending themselves and being burned as a witch for using magic. 

It dawns on you for a moment that, since you _are_ practicing magic, you very well might indeed already be a witch, but the sentiment is short lived as your eyes soon lock on the ale stand and the array of wine being sold nearby. 

“Where to first?” you ask, mouth already watering. 

“Essentials, most likely. If we can find them here. Grains, things that won’t go bad in a week. You’ll need a stockpile to last you through the winter.” As he says all this, Adrian starts walking towards a stall selling sacks of oats, leaving you to trot along behind him and try not to think of how much money he is spending in order to send you away, how you seem to be worth more to him gone than present. How you don’t even have the faintest idea where you’ll be set loose like some rabbit caught in a hunter’s trap and deemed too small and weak to serve as dinner. 

_If only the hunter could keep the rabbit as a pet._

Two sacks of oats, a copious amount of dried and salted meat wrapped tightly for travel, and several tins of spices later, Adrian mentions needing to go look for a horse and cart with which to take it all back in. Throughout the whole process of buying necessities, you’d said nothing, too trapped in your own head and busy sending furtive glances to the alcohol stands to be of any use. If you don’t fall asleep in a drunken stupor tonight, you are quite sure that you will be crying into your pillow instead, and one can only alot for so much self pity. In fact, you’re certain you’ll be crying into your pillow for at least a month as it is once you really and truly do leave, no reason to start the process of it all earlier than necessary. 

“Here,” Adrian says, pressing something heavy into your frozen hands. “Go get fabric, mittens. Anything and everything else you’ll want, things to do once your time is fully your own.”

He’s given you a pouch of coins, little glints of silver peeking out at you through the gaps in the silk enclosure. 

“This isn’t all the money, is it?” 

He pats his hip, drawing out the distinctive sound of coins as they clank against the sword you hadn’t realized he’s been concealing under his coat. “No. Though even if it was - I ask that you spend as much as you require. As I’ve said, it’s not of much use to me sitting around gathering dust in the castle. I’d rather it be spent on a worthy cause.”

You nearly wince at that, at the _charity_ he implies you to be. 

“Shall I come and find you at the ale stand when this is all done?” Adrian sighs, starting to walk away but not before watching for your nod of consent, of agreement. You give it, and with a sad sort of look, He turns on his raised heel, tugging the gilded collar of his coat up and disappearing into the myriad of other shoppers milling about the streets. 

You feel quite lost for a moment, realizing that you are truly alone for the first time in… months. You’ve been alone before, of course, but somehow, it feels different now. As though you are missing something important. 

_Fabric. Then a pastry. Then some ale._ With any luck, you’ll be able to sleep it all off in the back of the cart home and get the night over with. _No_ , you correct. _Not home. Not anymore_. 

The woman at the nearest fabric stall greets you with a cheerful smile, rosy cheeks, and warm hands extended to you in greeting. “Hello, love. What sort of things are you looking for on this fine night?”

You force a smile onto your lips to match her, but you know it does not reach your eyes. “Just something for dresses.”

“Do you have a color? Red is quite in at the moment.”

You do wince, then. “No,” you say with as much kindness as you can muster. “Not red, thank you. The gray on the shelf should do fine.”

You point behind the lady to a rather drab looking swathe of fabric, and she gives you a pitying look indeed. “Gray? On such a happy night?”

“I’m afraid it isn’t much of a happy night for me.”

Why are you telling her this? Some random woman at a stall whom you’ve never met and never will again?

Maybe you've spent too much time cooped up in the castle. What few social graces you’ve retained from your previous life seem to be disappearing more quickly by the second. 

“Far be it for me to pry,” she prefaces, reaching behind her for the requested gray fabric. “But is this unhappiness anything to do with the man you showed up with? With the nice jacket and golden hair?”

You run your cold fingers along your neck, trying to rub away the heat prickling there. “I suppose he does rather stand out, doesn’t he?”

The woman shrugs, starts to wrap up the fabric in a ribbon. “Only because of the way he was looking at you.”

“And in what way was that?” Boredom? Desire to be rid of you? Forced civility?

A light chuckle escapes her lips. “The way every young thing should want to be looked at, I’m sure. You mean a great deal to him. I can tell.”

You blink at her, suddenly quite still. “I think you… you must be mistaken.”

“My husband and I have been married thirty-four years, and he’s never looked at me like that. Trust me, girl. You hold onto that one.”

The woman hands you the bundle over the wooden countertop, rearranging some more colorful fabrics once you’ve taken hold of the gray. It is futile to try and explain the whole situation to her, you know, though she does seem a kind soul. Perhaps she would even listen to all the reasons why you _can’t_ hold onto Adrian, even though you so desperately want to. 

She shifts a bit of yellow fabric beneath your nose, and you’re struck by how soft it looks, and how perfectly it matches your favorite set of eyes. 

“Perhaps...” you muse, looking down at the sample on which her hand is still resting. A smile breaks onto her face, and you can tell that the woman takes great pleasure in preparing that cut for you as well. 

“It will suit you,” she says once you’ve paid her in coins. She’s given you enough fabric to make several dresses, if planned correctly, and directs you to the neighboring stall to purchase matching thread from a stout looking man with a rather impressive mustache. At the very least, you will have something to do for the next few weeks. You find yourself wandering over to a lovely array of waxen candles, and realizing that you very well cannot sew in the dark, you purchase a few that you are promised will burn slowly before continuing along, your arms piled high with the basis for what is to become your next life. You haven’t the faintest idea how long it’s taken to run your own errands, but as you decide to head to the corner of the market specializing in the booze you’ve been coveting all evening, you find that you’ve managed to get rather spun around in the process of trying to navigate the makeshift, winding streets. Instead of pastries or even the rather boring, undecorated stalls that Adrian had purchased the more necessary items at, you are surrounded by intricate cuckoo clocks and curving chairs. The woodcarving section, then. 

You’re about to leave, feeling as though you are very much in the wrong place, when a wizened old man sitting humbly at a booth lets loose a little laugh. 

“We don’t bite, girlie,” he calls, harmlessly. “You’re more than welcome to look around.”

You feel your pulse jump a little, perhaps out of embarrassment at being singled out. You aren’t alone in the section - there are plenty of other people looking at rocking chairs or carved cutlery. Just because you are unaccompanied does not mean that you are alone, and besides - you can handle yourself nowadays better than the last time you went to a market without Adrian to keep you from harm. 

“What do you sell?” you ask, proud of the evenness in your voice. 

The man whistles, leans back. “Tidbits. This and that. Little things to put on a tree or carry in a pocket. That one there,” he says, pointing to a bird-like figurine with an elongated, hollow tail, “will sing if you give it a drink of water first.”

You can’t help but find the strange man oddly endearing, and upon closer inspection, his little carvings hold a certain charm you’ve not seen anywhere else - a reminder of what your home should have been. There are rows of animals, a manger in which to place them. Other figurines. Your eyes settle on a stout little lamb that tugs at your heart and at your coin purse, and you tell the man as much after you've stared at it for a while. 

“Fancy yourself a shepherdess? You could make a whole flock of the little things.”

You merely smile, shake your head. “No, not a shepherdess. I think just one is enough for me.”

The man shrugs, reaches for a small bag beneath the counter. Something else catches your attention, however, a flatter carving set off to the side, away from the animals. 

“What is that one?” you ask, seeing swirling lines and tendrils extending from a rounded off center. 

“The sun, of course,” he answers with a proud little wag of his head. 

Your mind flashes to the dolls sitting on the kitchen shelf, how in all your time at the castle, they’ve neither moved nor collected dust. How Adrian mentioned two friends as rarely as he smiled. How he will once again have no one come tomorrow night. 

“I’ll take it as well,” you say, fishing out another coin. 

The man tips his hat, adds the woodcarving to the bag, and makes the exchange. 

“Pleasure, miss.”

You nod, add the small paper bag to the top of your growing stack of things, and head off in search of the main pathway. You decide to forgo the pastries in the sake of time, and once you’ve managed to double back on familiar grounds, you aim straight for the ale cart, which, thankfully, has gotten less of a line. 

However, less fortunately, Adrian is already standing against a wall nearby, scanning the crowds for something, or perhaps someone. Perhaps you. 

“You’ve been busy,” he says once those golden eyes find you amongst the thrum of the town. He flickers along with the torchlight brightening up the square, and for a moment, you wonder how no one else is as captivated by the effect as you are. One look, and you can barely think straight. 

You shift your pile to one hip, leaving one hand free to order and pay for a mug of ale. “I assume you found a cart, then?”

“Yes. And I overpaid the farrier, so he should be content to watch the things. I’m happy to carry yours back.”

“Are you not going to get a drink?”

Adrian stares doubtfully at the ale stand. “No, I’ll stick to what we have in the cellar. But, by all means,” he says, taking the purchases from your hands. “Enjoy yourself on this festive night. I’ll not be a minute.”

And once again, he’s gone before you can say anything more. 

_Fine, then._

You march up to the stand, finally make your order for _two_ mugs of golden drink. The man tending the kegs is rather young, perhaps only a little older than you. Tall, strong. He has a lopsided smile which he gives freely as he passes the mugs to you, wishes you a happy Yule before moving on, not a care in the world. Utterly oblivious to the turmoil you try and drown out with fermented wheat, with promises of numbness. He seems kind. 

And yet, you feel absolutely nothing for him where once, several months ago, you’d thought you’d fallen for someone very similar. Now, you aren’t sure you can ever fall for anyone else ever again. 

Yet _another_ reason to walk against the wall, drink the first mug dry with a vigor you didn’t realize you possess. The stuff burns on the way down, and it is a good deal stronger than you expected it to be, so you take care not to polish off the second mug too quickly. After all, you had forgone that pastry, and you hadn’t eaten dinner. 

Perhaps drinking everything into oblivion wasn’t the best idea, but… it’s far too late to turn back now. 

The voices of the people chatting around you seeps into the back of your head as a warmth starts to spread in your belly where the ever-present ache has taken residence. Not overpowering it, however, not getting rid of it. If anything, the sadness only grows, but somehow, that bubbly warmth seems to distract from it. You hurt no less, but you can almost ignore the pain amidst everything else. So, you take another sip. And another. 

“You heard about what happened at Genoa?” a man in merchant garb says to a judge. “Some madman just tore right through. Twelve guards dead. Just like that.” He snaps his fingers.

The judge scoffs, takes a sip from his own pint of ale. “You travel slowly, my friend. That is old news here.”

“Well, yes, but haven’t you seen the strange lights in the southern mountains? Flashes of red amongst the rock?”

Both men turn their eyes to what you presume is south, and you roll your eyes before finishing off one glass entirely and walking a little further down so as not to be burdened with the superstitions of men who know nothing of the natural world. Not the way you now do. You find a corner near a discarded pile of ale mugs to stand and wait in solace. 

It isn’t until you finish your second cup that you realize you are no longer alone.

“You could give the Belmonts a run for their money,” Adrian snorts from your left, making you jump about a foot in the air as you had not heard him approach. 

“Jesus,” you pant, hand groping for the stony wall and somehow finding Adrian instead. “Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

“I didn’t. You just weren’t paying attention.”

“Don’t start giving a defense lecture _now_ ,” you whine, shutting your eyes and recalling being told two dozen times to keep your guard up constantly. “Not when I’m… celebrating.”

He arcs a thin eyebrow, still holding onto your arm. “And what exactly are you celebrating?”

You merely blink. Stare at him. Try to focus on the question. “Nothing at all,” you answer after a moment, feeling rather empty. 

Adrian’s lips set in a firm, slowly frowning line, and with a gentle whisper and a firm hand, he begins to guide you away from your dark corner where you leave the mugs, past the ale stand. The boy manning the kegs tilts his head at you, sends a wave farewell in your direction. 

Adrian pulls you a little closer. 

In a matter of what feels simultaneously like only a few seconds and also several hours, you have left the holiday market, and are instead led to the exterior of a small inn where a horse cart is waiting in a side yard. You don’t protest much as Adrian eases you on the passenger side of the cart before saying something quiet to a man holding the reins of the dappled mare strapped to the front of it all. He joins you a moment later, and the other man who you presume to have been the farrier disappears as if he had never existed in the first place. 

How convenient for him. 

The cart jostles into motion as Adrian spurs the horse slowly forward, rolling over the town streets and then eventually the more uneven terrain back into the woods. Each bump, each overrun twig sends the ale sloshing about in your empty stomach, and you very much wish you had eaten that pastry.

It also doesn’t help that Adrian is sitting so close to you without actually touching you. His silhouette, ramrod straight, elbows bent at sharp right angles, cuts an imposing shape against the dark shroud of trees ambling by. If you didn’t know him better, you’d be intimidated. 

And that latter point is rather fortunate, because no sooner has the thought entered your mind than one of the wagon wheels on his side runs into a slight divot in the road. The sharp jerk of it all sends you crashing into Adrian’s suddenly outstretched hand and thankfully, not the pathway in front of you. Though, the sudden impact does leave you both a little stunned, and you particularly a little nauseous. 

So, not even fully aware of it, you do the sensible thing and continue to hold onto Adrian’s arm, finding his hand within the both of yours as you clutch the refreshingly cool leather to your neck. You cradle it with your chin as you close your eyes and wait for the world to stop spinning.

“I take it you aren’t one for wagon rides?” He says, a bit of expelled air cushioning the tone of his voice. 

You shake your head, but that seems to just make the world spin more. You find yourself holding onto Adrian’s arm more tightly, and after a moment, his hand wriggles around in your grasp to hold onto one of yours. 

“What is it?”

You swallow, feeling that nausea rather acutely. “I… the rocking, I think. The cart. I’m not…”

Familiar feelings spread along your spine, of being in a similar wagon what feels like both a lifetime and yet also only a heartbeat ago. Bound, blindfolded. Gagged, occasionally. 

Perhaps your foul mood isn’t so much to do with the ale, then. 

“Shit,” Adrian winces, coming to the same conclusion. “I can stop-”

“No,” you say, breathing, _making_ yourself breathe, calm down. “It’s fine, I’m... “ you shake your head, rid yourself of the memory the same way you’d done in your dreams before night creatures became a bigger concern than your less than pleasant wagon experiences. “I’m okay. Just a little drunk, I think.”

“I thought you only had two mugs?”

You look at him, at the concern written across his face. “I just... didn’t eat,” you admit, feeling worse about it than you might’ve expected. “And it was _strong_ ale.”

You’re still holding his arm, you realize, and you should probably let go of it. Nevermind that you don’t want to - there are quite a few things that you’re doing nowadays which have no interest for you anymore, like leaving. You can then, perhaps, afford to be selfish for just a little longer. You can hold him close for just a few moments more as you whisper “I just want to get home,” the last word hanging in the air with a definitive sadness.

And when he gently slides his arm away only to place it over your shoulders, pulling you against the side of his torso and letting you rest your head against his shoulder where the rocking seems to subside and you feel like you can breathe deeply again, you tell yourself that this is a last bit of self-indulgence as well. A bargain, of sorts. You will leave, you will do his bidding and go off to whatever lovely, lonely house that isn’t yet a home which he’s found for you. You won’t fight him on it, as much as you want to. 

But first, you can have this. A few moments, some comfort.

And you suppose, as he casually offers to share with you a final dinner, you can take him up on that indulgence as well.

One last time.


	26. Nocturne in Starlight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 10,300 words, might be a record for me :) This is probably my personal favorite chapter of the whole thing, and I hope that it's everything you've all been waiting and asking for.

“I think you’ll like the house,” Adrian says as he stoops down to pull the minced meat pies from the small kitchen oven, a checked towel over his hands to keep them from burning against hot metal. 

“How did you find it?” you ask, sitting at the windows and not yet at the table, trying to postpone this last meal by waiting to accept your normal seat until the place has been quite set. “I didn’t know you’d left the castle to go look for it.”

“I didn’t.” 

He pours two glasses of white wine, and though you really don’t need any more alcohol, you eye it thirstily as it is set at your place along with your steaming pie. You are quite sure that if given the chance, you would down it and another without hesitation if only to escape this, even if you simultaneously dread losing even a singular moment of this night. 

Human emotions, you decide, are strange things indeed. 

“My father purchased it on one of his travels,” Adrian sighs once the place has been set. “He recorded the deed in one of his journals, and after looking into it, the house is still in his name.”

You can’t hide the surprise in your voice and you peel yourself off the windowsill and trudge to the table as if you are a prisoner shuffling to the gallows. “Dracula bought a human house?”

“I believe he intended to furnish it with electricity generated by hydraulics had everything else not happened.”

You don’t even pretend to understand whatever that means, sober or otherwise.

“It’s a mill house,” he explains softly, seeing your confusion as you slouch into your seat. “Settled on the western side of a stream. The wheel still works. I imagine you could modify the mechanics of it to speed up thread spinning if you ever take up such a profession. I have no doubt you would be quite lucrative at it.”

You dig into the pie with a fork, focusing somewhat intently on the broken upper layer as steam seeps out in a great puff. “Is there a town nearby?”

“A thirty minute walk, I believe. A matter of two miles or so.”

Two miles to the nearest house? That sounds rather lonely. 

“I suppose the stars shall be my only company, then,” you sigh without really meaning to speak, preparing a forkful of pie which is sure to be quite delicious to enter your bitterly twisting mouth. 

Adrian, a little out of focus for you, tilts his head ever so slightly. “Are you… fond of such things? Stars?”

You feel a bit of color rising to your already flushed cheeks, and reach for the wine instead. “I haven’t exactly studied them,” you begin, taking a rather generous sip. “But… they’d been my only companion for the long winter walks back from my village. I suppose I’ll find them a familiar comfort again, even if I know very little of them aside from their soft beauty.”

How you had managed to say all that in one go you couldn’t tell, but you punctuate it by finishing the glass which seems to hold Adrian’s own astute attention. He cautiously draws his own to his lips, murmuring something you don’t catch.

“What?”

Adrian winces, swallows a good amount of the drink himself, and then stares at you with an inordinate amount of sadness. “I could give you one final lesson, if you wish. Tell you the origins of your favored companions before sending you off to join their company.”

“You’ve studied them, then?”

A slight spark of something happier glimmers in his eyes, but it is short lived. “It was one of my own passions growing up, the one reprieve I was able to take for myself amidst battlefield strategies and the best ways to heal flesh. I should be happy to share some of my knowledge on the matter with you.”

You glance down at your half eaten pie, the fully empty wine glass. One final lesson would give you more time with Adrian, even if you aren’t sure how fit you are to take in and store new information at the present moment. 

Seeing as this is the last bit of human contact you plan to have for quite a long time, you agree. One last lesson, one last way to stave off the inevitable. 

In your pocket, the two woodcarvings which you’d grabbed from the back of the cart while Adrian unloaded everything and led the horse to what he claimed was an underground stable clatter against each other as you stand, and Adrian leads you away from your now empty plates and back up the grand staircase, grabbing your cloak along the way. You walk up, and up, and at one point, Adrian has to keep you from tripping over your own skirts and drunken coordination. It dawns on your addled mind that he could just pick you up and fly to wherever it is that you are going, but that would perhaps be over too quickly for either of your liking, so you stick to the mundane, familiar trudge of one foot in front of the other, though after a while, Adrian does offer you his arm, and you, out of both a bit of reclusive sense and a whole heart full of suffocating, ever-present yearning, take it.

The two of you once again walk in formidable silence, but time seems to pass more fleetingly than it had before, and almost without your own recollection, you are standing before a great door with the promise of winter winds blustering on the opposite side.

“This was my favorite place as a child,” Adrian says as he wraps the cloak you’d forgotten he’s been carrying around your shoulders, gentle and careful as always to keep your hair from getting stuck in the clasp. “Though it tends to get a bit windy, so better stay close.”

He phrases it as if he’d rather you stay very far away instead, but nonetheless, you tighten your grip on his bicep, feeling the muscle tense and flex beneath your tremoring fingers.

You try not to think of all the anatomy charts you’ve studied over the past months, nor just how intimately you are aware with the physical form laid bare even if you have yet to see it of your companion beside you.

Human emotion really is a funny thing. 

As Adrian takes another step forward, the tall door before you is pulled directly upward by some elaborate mechanism concealed within layers of stony wall, and on the other end stretches a long, narrow, bannisterless breezeway that connects to a castle turret swallowed up from view by the immense darkness of the world beyond. A darkness broken only by the promising glimmer of thousands of stars stretching high above you, seeming so incredibly close and yet impossibly distant at the same time, their twinkling pinpricks of light whispering secrets you do not hold the keys to, do not know the names of. 

“Shall we step into the stars?” Adrian asks with a bit of a smile to his words. 

You manage an awed, silent nod and allow Adrian to guide your onwards, your chaperone at the debutante ball of the century, the millennia. Each star, a bright young thing clad in white waiting to be admired, studied. Chased after only to run off laughing with that immense mirth neither you nor Adrian seem to be able to capture for yourselves, telling nearby clusters of friends of the thrills they have witnessed, the things they have seen. 

You wonder what they will say of your own secrets, if they can see through the beating of your heart and the anguish of it all. If they laugh at your mortal woes, your comparatively short-lived sorrows. 

“I’ve told you the elements in our blood, yes? The traces of iron, how we are carbon beings, how there are so many complex things that compose our very bodies?”

You nod again, hearing him and yet still existing a world apart, trapped in spirit by the stars themselves casting a net of glamour over your thoughts, turning everything to a great muddying, drunken mess.

“Everything we know, every rock and tree and animal of this earth comes from the celestial expanse above us. We are all forged from the cores of dying stars, matter expelled over millennia and brought together by gravity and chance and made into what we are today.”

Adrian’s head is tilted up, the starlight playing across the gaunt planes of his face as though they are kissing his skin, claiming him as one of their own, as someone deemed worthy to know their secrets. He looks rather in place amongst them all, and you wonder if he really _did_ come from the stars, if any of you really could have. If the stuff of stars lies dormant in your veins even now. He must have been blessed by them in abundance for the resemblance he bears. How fitting then, that you were to fall for him, your star crossed love that is not to be. Was never to be. 

“They were here long before any of us ever were, and they shall be back when our own star, our sun, dies and takes us along with it, returning whatever leftover matter we forfeit to the great expanse from whence we came, sending us off in a parade of stardust and ecstasy.”

“When will that happen?” you ask will all the fearfulness of a child presented with the concept of death for the first time when shown an animal flattened on the road and swarmed with flies.

“Billions of years from now, I expect. When everyone has long since died off or found other means of leaving this world. Heaven and hell will watch the earth succumb to flames with a sigh, the ineffable plan of celestials come to fruition.” Adrian turns his head to look at you, seeming much older than only the twenty or so years under his belt. “Too far from now for you to even begin to worry about.”

“Will _you_ have to worry about it, though? Living forever and all that?”

His mouth tightens, and he looks back to the horizon. “I should hope not. Billions of years sounds like a dreadfully long time to spend alone, doesn’t it? I expect someone will come to kill me long before that occurs. I should wish it so, in fact. Once my obligations are fulfilled and someone else can watch over the castle or when the knowledge held within its cold walls becomes obsolete enough to warrant no further protection. I think it will be a blessing then, to fade into oblivion. Find my place amongst the stars, if I am lucky. My father in hell if I am not.”

You shift uncomfortably, holding him even more tightly and trying to sort through the jumbled mess of thoughts racing through your brain, all the comforting words and apologies and confessions getting mixed up until every word becomes the unintelligible murmurings of your breaking heart. 

“I am sorry,” Adrian scoffs. “That was not my intention to discuss when I offered to teach you about the stars. I-”

He cuts off when he sees the utter distress stretched across your face, an expression only worsened when you see it mirrored on his own.

“What is it? How can I help, if I’ve said something -”

You shake your head, vigorously. “No, it’s… I’m just…” 

Your chest heaves with the great weight of a sigh released into the night wind as you free yourself from Adrian so that your hands are left to wrap around your torso, your limbs desperate to give you even a modicum of comfort. You end up feeling the sharp wooden sun stab you in the hip instead, and somehow, you’ve never wanted to cry more in your life. 

And yet, shockingly, you hold yourself together, at least for the present. For just two more minutes - two minutes, you decide, is all you need. It is also all the time you can afford to have Adrian look at you like that for - a second longer of that tremendous concern and you might just jump over the edge of the breezeway.

“You deserve more than just… waiting around this castle by yourself for someone to eventually come along and…”

You can’t finish the sentence, and Adrian swallows with a look of anguish, glances away.

“It doesn’t matter if I deserve it or not,” he says softly. “Though it is rather fitting, awaiting the same fate which befell my father.”

“I…” you begin, the urge to force him into seeing just how much he is worth taking hold of your tongue and senses. “Adrian, you’ve... “

How to put it all into words? How to phrase the throbbing headache of a feeling so immense that it threatens to swallow you whole into syllables? How to tell him five thousand feelings at once and not lose anything in translation from heart to head to throat to lips?

Perhaps you can’t.

“Look, I know I’m not much. I’m not a huntress or a magician or anyone of any importance whatsoever. I’m a kidnapped shepherdess who, until a few months ago, was afraid of her own shadow. I was bought for two copper coins, dragged across Europe, and I stumbled over your doorstep entirely uninvited. No one has ever wanted me in my life, and I really shouldn't… I don’t expect you to be any different. I… I understand if solitude is worth more to you than my presence.”

Your eyes dart up just then, to find that Adrian has gone quite pale indeed.

“But even so, you’ve utterly gutted me on kindnesses I’ve not known, with tender words and soft hands and bodies pressed together on sleepless nights. You’ve taught me enough magic and forbidden knowledge to have me be forever accused of witchcraft no matter where I go, and you’ve entirely destroyed men for me because I know that not a single one could possibly compare.” You shake your head, wry thoughts spinning desperately. “And maybe I should hate you for it, for raising my expectations of the world to such impossibly high standards, making everything seem so dull and gray when it takes place away from here, but… I’m so... grateful to have known you, even if it was for such a short time.”

The tears start to come fully and Adrian moves to step forward, but your hand raises of its own accord and Adrian respects the silent plea for a moment, for the space to speak. 

Even if it seems that the effort such a request takes will tear him apart. 

“I shall never forget it, any of this, not as long as I Iive in the house you’ve found me, saved by the kindness and the mercy and patience you’ve shown me. Those alone prove how _good_ you are, how little you deserve to waste away alone in a place like this.” You pull the sun from your pocket, cup it in shaking hands as your vision blurs, as you blink back the tears. “And I know it is a painfully selfish request to ask that you’ll remember someone like me in return, but... I can’t help but hope that you’ll hold onto the thought of me, if only to stave off the loneliness from your solitary existence. Because…” _I love you so much that the thought of you suffering here alone is unbearable to me_. “There is no way for me to possibly repay all that you have done.”

You press the carving into his palms, feeling your throat constrict as he takes it, as you let go, start to walk backwards. 

A few more seconds, that’s all you have. 

Adrian’s head stoops low as his fingers unfurl, as he stares at the small thing that is as worthless as you are, a crude referral to something he likely doesn’t remember saying despite it having meant the entire world to you. 

He will always be your entire world, you will always picture him lit up by sunrays and starlight and carving a solitary silhouette against the sky flanked with castle spires and empty windows. A tragic scene regardless of if it’s the one he wants or not, and one you cannot take any more of. 

You turn to go with one last watery smile, feeling that a moment longer and you won’t be able to contain yourself. You hunch over against the strong winds and bitter cold and want nothing more than to curl up under the blankets on your soft bed and cry yourself into oblivion. Never mind that you haven’t the faintest idea how to get to your bedroom from where you now are. You hadn’t had the foresight to pay attention on the way up. You’d been too damned drunk. You still are too drunk - why else would you have poured your entire heart out to someone who clearly can’t wait to be left to wallow in his misery _alone_?

“Wait,” a broken voice beckons to you, the tenor of it snatched away by the wind. “ _Please_ , I-”

Your feet still shuffle onwards. You don’t want to hear him say nice things out of some nonexistent obligation to comfort you with pretty words. He’s made it clear that he doesn’t want you. You’ve accepted it. You’re trying to move on. 

If he were merciful, he would let you.

For a long moment, he says nothing more. You’ve gotten within an arm’s distance of the castle wall, the door is only a few feet beyond. If you make it through, he will not chase you. You are certain of it.   
You just have to make it out of sight and then you can lose all sense of dignity, let everything holding you together crumble away into a dark and dismal nothingness. Maybe you won’t even make it to your room. Maybe you’ll just find the nearest secluded corner and ball your eyes out on some tapestry or another. It really won’t make much of a difference. 

A flash of something leaps before you, sending a jolt of shock through your knees that has you stumbling back, glossy eyes blown wide. 

Adrian catches you before you can fall, strong hands wrapping around your waist and pulling you back. For a long moment, you are too stunned to say anything, too surprised by his intervention, by the way he has wedged himself between you and the door, the means by which you were to leave him, to accept your fate with what little decorum and pride you have left. You just stare at each other, one set of watering eyes to another, open mouths panting and tense and worried. 

“I am not asking you to leave because I do not want you,” Adrian gasps in a strange sort of voice, still holding you tightly. “I’ll not let you go forth under such an assumption. If things were different, perhaps then...” He shakes his head.

Somehow it makes you ache even more. “You don’t have to lie to me. You never even asked for me to show up.”

“That doesn’t mean that I haven't enjoyed-”

“I barged in here. I broke your wards and leeched off your generous-”

“ _There are no wards_ ,” he says, darkly and desperately and clutching you firmly enough to be quite painful, though you no longer feel it. “There have never been any wards.”

You no longer feel anything. 

“... _What?_ "

Adrian’s face twists, and his expression combined with the tortured way he enunciates each syllable gives the rather startling impression that he has been thoroughly impaled by some invisible assailant. 

It’s frightfully alarming. 

“You’ve seen the castle doors,” he says frantically. “You’ve seen how enormous they are and how the only way they open is if I command it. Any wards against humans died along with my father - why else would I be here, guarding this tomb if it was capable of keeping prying eyes out on its own? How on earth do you think you got in if I hadn’t _let_ you cross the threshold? If I hadn’t _wanted_ you to enter?”

Your mouth falls open, gaping. “But- you said - I…” your eyes dart frantically around, shifting from his face to the stars to the castle behind him as if you could find answers written in the world around you. “It took you _weeks_ to trust me - why would you have even let me in to begin with?”

“I wasn’t going to,” he says shamefully. “Everything in my head told me to just leave you be and to stay out of it, but... I watched you through an upper window, saw your bound hands as you strode past the corpses without so much as a second thought.” Adrian shakes his head, shuts his eyes. “And even so, I wasn’t going to intervene once your pursuers caught up. But then I _heard_ you, the sound of your begging over the hammering of your heart, how you asked for someone, _anyone_ to help you, to just let you in. And I… I wanted so _badly_ to trust you in that moment, to trust humanity. To offer it one last shred of hope." He's breathing quickly now, chest rising and falling before you. "It was a risk, and it terrified me, but I knew that if you proved false I could kill you in an instant - I am still painfully aware of how easily your life could be ended by my hands.”

Adrian loosens his death grip around your waist apologetically at that, though he does not release you entirely, and you find breathing to be easier once the pressure is removed, though perhaps not because of it. 

“But... you proved true,” he cries softly. “Time and time again, you waited, you didn’t pry or snoop or push me into things I was not yet ready for. You _listened_ , and you _cared_ , and you made it so _easy_ to love you-”

Adrian’s eyes shoot open, and though you did not think it possible, he pales even more. 

You feel ice flush through your veins, threatening to capsize you and weakening your knees. Adrian has gone very still, frozen with a look of horror on his beautiful features.

“You… you _love_ -”

“Yes,” he whispers, forlornly and as if that one word itself is the single greatest tragedy written in all the history of the world. “I do. I… I think I always will. I don’t see any alternative. No one will take your place, I’m quite certain of that.”

Your chest feels too tight, your head in danger of pounding into the stone beneath you as your legs try to float aimlessly into the stars that are doubtlessly laughing at your misery, at the cosmic woe that only they could have predicted. 

“Then why send me away?” you say, voice barely above a trembling, furious whisper. “Why are you making me leave? Do you have any idea how the past two weeks have _hurt_ \- how I died at the end of each day I thought you were just waiting to be rid of me? I felt so pathetic and _worthless_ and… and…”

You’re a sniveling mess. You know your face is blotchy and wet and tear stained but you don’t care. Each word, each dagger you send lopsidedly at Adrian, you punctuate by sloppily swinging at his chest, his arms - anything and everything that is holding you down, forcing you to get through this, keeping you from running away. 

“Were you _ever_ going to tell me?” You ask, feeling the strength steeping out of you with every tear dripping down your jaw and splatting against your cloak. 

The overwhelming guilt in Adrian’s face is answer enough, but as if he knows he owes something verbal no matter how late, his lips part. “I thought it... kinder not to impose such sentiments on you. You need not be burdened with thoughts of me - I don’t want to be the reason you throw your life away.”

“ _You are my life!_ " you shriek. "This castle, the books - the magic in the ballroom and dinner every night - waiting to finally see you _smile_ for once. What else is there in this world that could possibly be better for me?”

“Safety,” he firmly counters without hesitation, as if he’s thought on this topic for quite some time prior to it being brought up. “Security. Peace of mind. I will always be hunted, attacked, you will never be free of it, of the monsters that follow my heels wherever I go.”

“I can get better at magic, at sword fighting - I can _help_ you, just give me more time-I can get good -”

“You’ll never be good enough!”

Adrian’s gripping your shoulders now, stooping low. Even the wind seems to go silent as his words ring out along the barren landscape, colder than the snow itself. 

Every fear, every doubt, every worry - confirmed. Instantly. Even if Adrian loves you - you still aren’t good enough. You aren’t worth keeping around.

His eyes dart between yours with a sudden, horrid realization. “I didn’t mean it like… _shit_ , no, that’s not-”

You shove him off you with enough force to send him dangerously close to the edge of the walkway. Once again, you need to get through that door, just a few more steps - 

He’s grabbing your arm, spinning you back around. 

“Don’t touch me!” Your voice breaks along with the last remaining pieces of your shredded heart. “Let go!”

Adrian shakes his head looking rather terrified himself. “No - not until I explain-”

“Fuck off - you’ve said more than enough." 

“No, I _haven’t_. Not now, not ever. I’ve -” he swallows, turns his head away for a fraction of a second before focusing back on you. It’s as if he’s forcing himself to remain tethered to this moment as much as you are. “I’ve not told you everything. If you knew what is coming - you’d see why I cannot let you stay. It has nothing to do with yourself.”

Adrian steps forward, tugged along slightly by the constant force against him you are exerting as you lean away, trying to remain upright with both his physical weight and that of more emotions than you have words for acting against you with the utmost vigor.

“Give ten minutes - ten minutes to explain this, to show you why you must leave. Afterwards you can do what you like - just please, endure me for ten minutes more. That is all I ask of you.”

_I could endure you for the rest of my life_ , you want to say, to shout. To thrust the words into his mouth as you kiss some damned sense into him.

But you don’t.

“ _Fine_.”

Adrian’s grip loosens instantly, and you wrench your arm away, mainly on principle rather than any lasting emotion against him. 

He straightens himself, shuts his eyes. Sighs. 

“My father kept a transmission mirror,” he begins, as if he expects you to know what such an item is. “After… after you burned away the literal reminders of my past, I was worried that something else would come up - something always does where I’m concerned. So, I consulted it. I can show you, if you like, but…” You see his hands clenched into fists at his sides, thin veins poking up like pale mountains. “There is a war brewing. On multiple fronts. Human, vampire - all bad and inescapable and unpreventable, and it's going to happen here. In Wallachia.”

He looks at you, and you stare back, waiting for the words to sink, to drop like a weight in your stomach that sends you running into the hills in search of salvation found elsewhere. 

But your heart ticks ever onward. 

And the drop never comes.

“...So?” you find yourself asking.

Adrian blinks. “… did you hear what I said?”

You scowl at him. “Yes, I’m not deaf. There’s to be a war - but there are wars _all the time_ , Adrian. Kingdoms trying to expand, peasants leading their muddy revolts. If you care about me why send me away? Why not hold onto me where you know I’ll be safe - with you?”

“Because you _aren’t_ safe here,” he cries, begging you to understand. “The castle doesn't have proper defenses - _I_ can’t protect you against this - _I’m_ not strong enough!”

You pause, a single thought rising up to the surface of your mind as if it were an air bubble trapped deep within some underwater recess only just escaping its marine confines. A solution.

“But you could be,” you say, dangerously calm as your eyes flit to meet his, which widen a second later. 

“No,” he gasps, horrified. 

“But you _could_ , couldn’t you? You drink from me, a little every so often, and you get stronger, right? Over time?”

Adrian shakes his head, takes a few steps backwards. “Do not… do not _ask_ that of me, do not offer up something you have no knowledge of.”

For each shuffle back, you walk forward, something hot rising in the pit of your belly. “Then leave - come with me to this mill house and leave the castle and all its infernal secrets. Or get the damn thing to _move_ again! If you don’t want to fight - run away!”

He winces. “ _I can’t_.”

There’s enough force behind his words to halt the both of you, two silhouettes across a long, spired bridge, two unmoving statues turned to stone by the other’s gaze. Resolute, unyielding.

That warmth festers, grows up and burrows into your chest, becoming something awfully like a low, dark laugh. “I’ve spent weeks wondering if you would ever have even a fraction of what I feel for you, thinking that would be enough to let me stay here,” you bite. “But I was wrong, because despite whatever feelings you may or may not have for me, _clearly_ , I am just ‘not good enough’ to keep and I never will be.”

“That’s not true-”

“Isn’t it?” your words are sharp, bitter. “I _can_ help. I can give you my blood, my time, my affection - all things you sorely need if there really is to be a war - but you don’t want any of it. You don’t want to keep me, or else you’d let me help. You don’t want me.”

You don’t so much as blink before Adrian vanishes and reappears less than a foot away from you, a bit of red trail following suit. With a speed so quick that it could be misconstrued as roughness, both his hands find yours, and he brings your palms flush over his racing heart. “Of _course_ I want you,” he says in a low, solemn voice. “I think the absolute world of you, and were things in this life not cruel and terrifying and dark, I should very much like to host you in this melancholy stone monstrosity for as long as it takes for you to grow tired of me. I _need_ you so much it’s frightening, but understand that I am sending you away to _preserve_ you. This castle _will_ be attacked - I’m surprised it hasn’t been already. And when it is, I will not be able to save you nor myself. _Please_ , do not let me suffer knowing that I did not stop your death. Let me save you before it is too late.”

His eyes search yours so earnestly that you almost forget what he’s just said, what one little slip up in his eloquence has revealed to you. 

But of course, you hold onto it, and the thought brings fresh tears brimming to your tired eyes as the words you could not speak moments ago come rushing past a broken barrier.

“I’m really just supposed to sit in some cottage in another country while you wait here to be _killed_ within the next few months? Knowing that I could prevent it? How is that any different from why you want to send me away?”

“I am going to die whether you stay or leave - it is inevitable,” he says, rapidfire. “At least this way I know you’ll be able to carry on. Live a life you were meant to, find happiness and a purpose away from this, from me and all the suffering I’ll cause.”

The image of Adrian’s body lying prone in the ballroom flashes viscerally to your mind, and you reel with the knowledge that he feels the scenario is impending, ineffable. The wretched tears you’ve failed to hold in all evening burst through one more with a cry that cuts through the night drawn thin over the horizon, and for a moment, you want nothing more than to cling to Adrian, your beautiful, haunted martyr who need not die, need not be sacrificed. If only he weren’t so damn headstrong. 

“You absolute idiot,” you wail, clutching at the fabric on his chest and pulling him close. “How can you be so intelligent and so _stupid_? Don’t you see how pointless it is for you to stay here alone, just waiting to die? Don’t you know that your life is worth more than all the damn books in this whole castle?”

Adrian grimaces. “There is more here than humans have ever achieved, perhaps than they will ever achieve - surely you can attest to that. The knowledge spans centuries into the future - my life is worthless compared to it.”

“Not to me it isn’t,” you say. The words are easy, effortless, but holding his gaze, watching it morph and twist into something so uncertain, so conflicted…

It is torture. 

“Adrian, _I love you_ ,” you gasp, wondering if he somehow still hasn’t realized it. “I love you so much I think I will die if you send me away, if you force me to abandon you to roam these lonely halls and await your own execution. I’d trade you for all the knowledge in the world in a _heartbeat_.”

He stills, quiets. Stares down at where your hand is still splayed across his chest, where you feel his own heartbeat falter, quicken. 

“You’d be getting the short end of that trade,” he finally says, so quietly that you almost don’t hear it over the sound of your own sniffling. Your cheeks are wet, you can practically feel the starlight, that mocking, twinkling glow, dancing off them. Making you shine in sadness, perhaps trying to bring you one step closer to themselves in the process, to take you away from such mortal toils as the cold air stings and burns you and reminds you just how human your troubles really are.

“I don’t care.”

He scoffs, half-heartedly. When his eyes meet yours once again, shielded by golden hair, you see that tears have escaped him as well, that his lips are thin and drawn and holding back so much. 

“The training, the swordfights… I thought… if I was cruel, cold…”

“That I’d leave?”

He nods.

You move a little closer, draw your other hand up to brush away his hair, some of his tears.

He leans into your palm, presses his own hand over yours. Holds you there. 

“I am sorry I attempted to make the choice for you,” he whispers, lips so close to your flesh. “I didn't want to worry you, frighten you with news of such destruction. I thought I could send you away without the burden of such knowledge. The thought of you sad, terrified…” he shuts his eyes, grasps you more tightly. “I wanted to spare you that - and my feelings. This life.”

You merely shake your head, draw ever closer. “You’re stuck with me, Adrian. My happiness is entwined with yours, my life, my love… I’ll give it to you gladly. I’ll give you everything, all of me, if you really do want it.” You can see each individual eyelash, each tear sitting upon them like crystals suspended by silk. “After all you’ve endured, I wasn’t sure if you’d want me in such a manner, if you even wanted me at all.”

Adrian says nothing, but as he looks at you, as you see the burning intensity in those captivating eyes, the mix of shame and desire amidst everything else, you realize that you’ve severely underestimated the effect that you have upon him, that the depth of his emotion is quite endless, and if your recollection of vampire texts is to be trusted, perhaps his feelings even surpass your own. The very feelings which have threatened to rend you limb from limb might seem like passing fancy to him, for as you two share a single breath of air in the space between your mouths, as you feel your eyes swollen with crying flutter to half-mast and your head tilt back as his leans down, you sense the amount of restraint Adrian is exerting to keep those few tantalizing inches of space, to stop himself from pressing into you and letting the world fade away. 

“I will not be easy to love,” he says, timidly. “I’ll insist that you turn back at every moment, every time I feel myself losing control over that which haunts me.”

His hands fall around your waist, holding you softly, as if you are no more than an illusion waiting to be shattered by the wrong words. 

“I am patient. Resilient.”

“You are brave.”

You smile a little, shake away the compliment. “No,” you say. “Not really.” Your thumb runs along his cheek. “If I seem so, it is only because you make me strong. You make me want to face danger and win.”

“Why?”

You shrug. “So that I can live to see you happy.”

“Is my happiness really that valuable to you?”

“Yes.”

Adrian sets his jaw, blinks. Stares at your lips as if they are some great, insurmountable obstacle. 

“Close your eyes,” he asks, gaze never wavering as if he is afraid of losing them. 

You take a shaking breath, fight the tremulous, half-expectant smile as the emotion of being given a surprise of some kind fights its way to the forefront of your consciousness. You feel a soft, hesitating breath against your skin, the moment savored and drawn out for the stars to enjoy as voyeurs. A bit of hair falls over you, a shadow of something. 

And then, you feel a tremulous thing on your lips, the sensation as crushingly gentle as a rosebud pressed too close to a nose trying to savor its sweet fragrance. His lips, as salty and tear-stained as your own collide against yours in the faintest whisper of a kiss, a sensation meant to abate ghosts, to test their hold over the mortal realm on this world-weary night. 

He pulls back a moment later, though he does not stray far. Waiting, though for whom, you know not. Perhaps, as a shuddering exhale is cleaved from him, he is just as unsure. 

Your tongue glides over where he had been not seconds before as you dare to open your eyes, to view the moment, the majesty before you as Adrian blinks, as a hesitant grin pulls at the corners of his mouth. As you watch him throw away his conflicted nature, the fear of what is to come, of what came before. As you feel his body press testingly against yours, drawing you close to the point where you feel the swell in his chest, the insistent press of his fingers into your back. 

“Tolerable?” He asks, a bit of a laugh behind it all. 

Your hands rise to either side of his face, anchoring you as you lean up, and as he leans down.

Lips meet again, and though still soft, there is insistence to them now, an urgency spurred on by having held out for too long and fearing that time will be cut short any second, whether by memories or by forces outside either of your control. In this moment, you do not let your mind wander to such things, you do not focus on anything but what you have before you, for however long you might have him. You do not see how the stars twinkle ever brighter, how they bloom for the one who so resembles them as he holds you, kisses you. Again and again as if you have become something vital, something inescapable from the clutches of his long withheld desires. You open your mouth first, inviting him deeper still, waiting for him to decline in the back of your hazy, addled thoughts.

A moment later, he has joined you there as well, but as your lips part and reseal your tongue flicks over the sharpness of his teeth, and he pulls away. 

“Slowly,” he says, gasping with the reminder of what he is. You notice how wide his pupils seem, how dark. How they wash out the flush to his cheeks, the heat rising to your own. “I don’t want to rush into this - into what might happen if I give in to this further.”

“I can wait,” you say. “You are worth it.”

Adrian shudders, lowers his head. Presses his forehead to yours. “Before you decide to stay… let me show you what comes. Let me show you the vampires, the house you might escape to. So that you know.”

You sigh. “Tomorrow?”

He agrees. “Tomorrow.”

A nod of your head, and then you press your cheek to his chest, wrapping your arms around him, pulling you close. His arms envelope you, and for a long time, that is all you know, the both of you entwined, terrified and scared and yet so immensely in love that somehow you can overlook all the impending darkness. You know that you will stay regardless of what you see tomorrow, no matter what Adrian imparts to you. You will stay and fight for some method of salvation, some way to keep this most precious fluttering in your heart alive. The instinct to survive returns to you after months of being dormant. A hunger in your soul reawakens, urges you to cleave the darkness with walls of fire and flashes of steel and whatever else is necessary. You will find a way to save the both of you. To run away, to defeat whatever monsters Adrian so desperately fears. 

You will find a way. 

You _have_ to.


	27. Best Laid Plans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Helllloooooooo my patient readers, I am back! I appreciate everyone's kind encouragement during my "little" break, and I can only hope that this chapter is worth the wait. I don't know if I'll ever be able to top the previous chapter's starlit confessions, but hopefully the plot doesn't get too boring from here on out. I've re-written the next few chapters at least three times (they're all rather plot-setup-heavy and I needed to get them just right), so as always, I hope you enjoy 💛

You do not spend the night together. You do not sleep in the same bed, nor in the same room, but the picture of you on that breezeway does not leave Adrian’s head in the waking nor in the sleeping hours he spends waiting for you to rise. 

The separation leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. He doesn’t like being away from you, not now, but there are more pressing matters to tend to, more important things than his desire for nearness, than his longing to feel your fingers on his skin, to touch yours in return. Even if such acts will take an endless amount of time and effort on both your parts to maintain with his own past to contend with, you are the first and only person Adrian has found himself to deliberately want in such a close, sensual way, but it has to wait, for he is nothing if not decently responsible when it comes to self control and executing tasks - and occasionally people - in the proper order. Before either of you can take things further, you need to see what he has in the mirror, what he checks every night in his father’s most recent journals. You must decide to stay _despite_ everything which begs you to flee, and then and only then, will Adrian allow the both of you to begin the process of becoming… intimate. 

This does not mean, however, that he did not kiss you goodnight before leaving you to your bedroom as the dawn slowly broke. 

“Do you… want to stay?” you’d asked, almost shyly.

“Yes,” he’d whispered, lips pressing to the top of your head right where the braid you’d woven into your hair still held strong. “But not yet.”

You’d held his hands, squeezed them to your chest, and nodded, understanding.

And then he’d kissed you, felt his pulse quicken with adrenaline and desire mixed with some panic, thoughts screaming inside his mind that he loves the act as much as he is reviled by it. But kissing you, it seems right, somehow, even if it still feels wrong. 

He’d pulled himself away before it went too far. It had been a long night, and he felt as weary as you obviously were. He’d needed to think, to be alone with those racing thoughts and worm out what was true and and was imagined, what was leftover from his last experience. He wanted to purge those latter thoughts, cleanse his mind of that which could taint the taste of you, mar the feel of your skin. 

He’d bid you goodnight, promised to meet you later on in the day when you awoke, and before he went to bed himself, he’d fished the little sun carving from his pocket and placed it as his bedside table on the off chance that it could serve as a talisman against ever encroaching evil while he attempted to sleep for whatever brief time his body would afford him. 

Adrian sits at the kitchen table now, a mug of honeyed tea and a plate of ginger scones within his reach. You are not yet awake, and he can only guess that you’re sleeping off a hangover. He himself had arisen far earlier, unable to sleep any longer than the few tormented hours afforded to him by his racing mind. He’d returned the horse to the inn to try and dispel his nervous energy in awaiting your appearance, startling a bleary-eyed farrier and earning a strange look as he simply walked out of the town with his collar raised high and hair covering his red-rimmed eyes. That is one town he won’t be returning to any time soon. 

Your sleeping heart is steady as it echoes throughout the palace walls on a frequency he feels more than hears, and for a moment, he wonders if you’ll remember anything at all when you do wake. How drunk had you been, really? He knows there is a very small chance that he’ll be able to repeat himself from last night should your memory have blotted his eloquence from recollection.  
Adrian reaches for a scone, biting it absently. He is going to miss those, once you’ve left. Making them himself will be too painful a reminder of what he’s let go. But… if there really is a possibility for you to stay…

He shouldn’t let you, of course. But the thought of forcing you out and making you hate him makes his stomach churn, just as much as the picture of your blood smeared across the palace walls right beside his. 

_One thing at a time_ , he reminds himself. First you wake up, then he tells you everything he knows. And then… 

It is rather selfish of him, he’s aware, but a larger part of him than he is willing to admit hopes that you will decide to stay, regardless. He’d meant what he said - he will be quite lonely without you around to brighten the dismal halls. His happiness is solely dependent on you - if you are to leave his only solace would be your safety. Any happiness besides that knowledge would simply cease in your absence. He _needs_ you.

If only there wasn’t to be a damn war, he would be ecstatic with the thought of holding onto you. Of letting you heal him with gentle words and careful touches. 

If only. 

You rise when the tea has grown quite cold, and Adrian can do nothing but sit utterly still. Perhaps it's some sort of instinctive response to fear that he has - in times of stress or uncertainty, he has a tendency to freeze, his mind overanalyzing every sound, every threat. He hears you descend each step on light, stockinged feet, hears you pad across the entrance hall, drawing nearer and nearer to the kitchen. To him. 

Too soon, you stand blinking in the kitchen doorway, squinting at him through the bright afternoon sunlight bouncing off the snow. 

“Hello,” he manages, wishing very much that he still had hot tea, had something to occupy his hands with. 

“Hello,” you reply, sounding tired. Then, “Last night wasn’t a dream was it?” 

“...What do you remember?”

You bring your fingers to your lips, touching the fullest point of them in memory, staring at him for confirmation. “We kissed.”

A bit of breath he didn’t realize he was holding escapes him through his finely arched nose. “Yes,” he nearly whispers, as if saying it too loudly would make such a statement false. “Several times.”

“Will we be doing that again?”

You shift your weight nervously, a bit of color rushing to your cheeks, the sight of which warms Adrian’s own. 

“I... would not be opposed to the idea,” he admits rather easily, sitting forward again and feeling an ache in his joints at having sat so stiffly for so long. “But it should wait. Until you’ve seen everything.”

“And… when will that be?”

Adrian, terrible at reading emotions, does not know what sentiment your kind, sleepy eyes are expressing, but it almost feels like a sort of impatience. “We can start whenever you wish.”

“Would it be very rude of me to say that I’d like to get it over with sooner rather than later?”

“Why would wanting to know what threatens us be rude?”

You blush further. “Because I think I just want to get it over with so I can kiss you again.”

“... perhaps I should have been more specific in my ultimatums, then,” Adrian sighs. “Do you want breakfast or anything before we delve into it all?”  
You shake your head. “No, I am not hungry.” 

Adrian tries not to remind himself that a loss in appetite could be contributed to fear as he stands up with the legs of the chair squeaking along the floorboards.

“Then, I suppose there’s no point in staving off the inevitable,” he says softly, walking towards you with slow, measured steps. You wait for him to reach you, brush some sleep from your eyes. You walk side by side with him back up the great staircase, through the echoing hallways. Adrian takes you the most direct route to his father's office, which involves stepping through the throne room. He’s never spent much time in the presumptuous place, not while growing up or in his adult life. There had never been a reason to linger there, but he senses a decline in your pace as your hand reaches out to brush against a nearby pillar. 

“Did Dracula ever use this room for anything?” you ask, slightly more awake, taking in the lofty ceilings and lonely chair. 

“Brooding, mostly. If anything. Perhaps he once used it for what it was long ago, but that was all gone when I came around.” Adrian looks at the throne left to collect dust with a tilt to his head. “In the end, I think he would have been quite happy to just live a normal life had everything not happened the way it did.”  
You’ve weaseled out enough secrets about his mother to build a picture of how much his father loved her, Adrian realizes. He isn’t sure what he expects you to say following his statement, if he’s looking for pity or sympathy.

“Could it have been a normal life?” you ask, running your hand along a pillar. “A human and a vampire?”

Adrian pauses for a moment, considers. “I suppose the term is relative.”

You follow him up the spiral staircase, through an antechamber, and then down another letting out in the hallway housing his father’s main study. A small room compared to the rest of the castle, it has been populated in the recent weeks with a compilation of journals, maps, and other miscellaneous books from all corners of the estate that Adrian felt might hold some value. As your eyes take a broad sweep of the room, Adrian can’t help but be a little embarrassed by how utterly disorganized everything is, how unlike his usual methodical systems and categorizations. 

“I would have cleaned up, if…” 

If you were still leaving. 

Which you might not be. 

Why does his heart flutter so at the thought?

“A bit of clutter makes things seem less formal and intimidating,” you say, stepping into the room with confident strides. “Where do we start?”

 _Where indeed?_ Perhaps it is better to explain things first, the traditional way, with paper and writings and physical, tangible evidence of the things which are. If, after he has exhausted himself and spoken to you at length until his voice is hoarse, you are still not convinced that this world is becoming far too dangerous for you, _then_ he will show you the horrors, have you stare at them in one of the mirrors. Then you’ll have seen it too, the nightmares, the awful normality shadowing his existence, the only life he’s ever known. 

You’re watching him, he realizes. Waiting. 

You need not see the monsters. Not yet. 

He clears his throat. Walks to his father’s desk, beholds the map he’s spent careful, countless hours updating. Redrawing. 

How strange, to be using inks and pens and to draw parallels of plans, of observed calculations. He can’t remember the last time he wanted to do anything else, to draw the way he had in his youth, visualizing architectural structures, portraits, imitations of plants for catalogues. 

“This is a map of the area as we know it,” he says, softly, fingers ghosting over the parchment, the lines of brutally intentional ink. “This is where we are,” he points, a small spec somewhat near Targoviste.

You’re looking over his shoulder, soft eyes turning sharper, turning attentive. 

“You’ve seen the throne room, you know the sort of influence my father had. Before my time, he was… quite feared. By humans and vampires alike.” He sweeps his palm over all of Wallachia, moving west. “He controlled a large swathe of land - human kings could rise and fall, but his rule was eternal. He had access to some mortal repositories of knowledge, found them generally lacking, and so on. Humans lived in terror of his wrath, and for four hundred years, this was a relatively quiet place unless my father decided it was to be otherwise and sharpened his pikes. Quiet while I was around, but when the church decided to poke their noses into things they didn’t understand… well, you know the rest.”

You place your hands softly around his arm, hesitantly offering comfort over a subject which you know still tightens his throat, makes his blood cold.   
Adrian takes a breath, lets himself feel your touch for just a moment, and continues, reaching for a journal on the raised back of the drafting desk. 

“My father’s death leaves this entire country wide open for raiders,” he explains, flipping through the pages. “Before this castle was damaged to the state at which you now find it, he called a war council in my absence - vampire lords from all corners of this desolate planet. There were those uninvited, of course, but they are insignificant, smaller lords of meaningless territories, ones who work within the whims of human kings. The six or so that came here died by my hand when I arrived to kill my father, along with most of their personal guard. Naturally, the remainder of their courts are vying amongst each other for power, for control. For the chance to expand their borders.”

Adrian holds open the journal with the names of all the war council written out in elegant, clear writing. His father’s writing. 

“There are nine names there,” you say, not missing anything.

A bitter smile reaches Adrian’s lips, partly out of amusement at your observations, partly out of a sense of irony at having not realized that fact sooner himself. 

“The three on this list who are not dead are Isaac, Hector, and Carmilla.”

“They got away?”

Adrian nods, slowly. “Carmilla is one of four rulers of Styria, the last powerful vampire stronghold and the only one not divided by the death of its head. Therefore, she’s left with the greatest advantage.” Frowning, Adrian points to the location of her castle within the region of Austria. “Her territory bordered my father’s, her military forces, clothed in their white livery, rivaled his. She took over from the vampire that turned her almost a century ago - that seems to be her move; infiltrate a crumbling power dynamic and seize control. Likely what she would have done here had I not intervened.”

“And the other two? Hector and Isaac - are they vampires as well?”

“No,” he says with some bite. “Human. Forgemasters, outcasts found by my father on his travels and pitied into servitude.”

You blink, are quiet for a moment. “Humans helping Dracula… didn’t he want to exterminate the rest of us?”

“That did seem to be his intention, yes.”

“Isn’t killing off one’s main food source a little… ill advised?”

Another journal, one with a red spine and writings much more recent than the rest, catches Adrian’s eye from the mantle, and he strides over to reach it, trying to piece together the narrative he’s constructed from their pages in some coherent fashion to you. “Vampires can survive off the blood of animals. The reason a vampire needs blood at all is a result of a chemical imbalance, a lack of essential minerals for rather specific metabolic functions. Human blood is apparently richer and less is required to satisfy. The vampiric instincts you’ve undoubtedly read about in your studies are a direct result of that chemical imbalance, but also an antiquated tradition of stalking mankind for sport to achieve a sense of … short lived satisfaction. Apparently live blood is more desirable.” Adrian spits the words out with enough force to have you looking up at him appraisingly, something he cannot read deep within your eyes. 

“Do _you_ have such instincts?”

He freezes, the book halfway open. “I told you I’ve never bitten a human, never drank from them.”

“But do you still have the urge to? On occasion?”

There is a thick, tense silence between the both of you, and it feels like a millennia before he clears his throat, looks away. Gives a rather vague answer. “I’ve not acted on it.”

In truth, he isn’t sure. He isn’t sure if what he feels towards you is something pure or something inherently addled by the joy he finds in listening to your heart, in the calming, hypnotic sensation of your pulse. He doesn’t want to know.   
Whatever it is, it’s under control, it isn’t an issue. 

And besides, there are other matters more pressing to attend to, more important than the way you’re looking at him. Than the way it makes his chest ache.

“Evidently,” he continues sharply, “the idea of living off livestock was unappealing to the actual vampires such a lifestyle was to be forced upon. Carmilla must have rebelled and left before I arrived - or rather, I suppose before the castle arrived here - and so she lives. And in the near four months since that battle, she’s been rebuilding her army and working to invade, thus expanding her territory.”

“Expanding her territory?” You look at the map, at Styria’s present jurisdiction. “The one that borders yours?”

“...My father’s.”

“Did you not inherit it?”

An innocent question, Adrian is sure, but such an unfamiliar suggestion hits him like a heavy blow to the chest. “I… I’m fairly certain that he disowned me when he tried to kill me,” he mutters.

“You still beat him, you still have the castle,” you gesture. “I’d say by right of conquest, all of Wallachia is yours too if it was once his.”

_What an abhorrent thought._

“I don’t want it,” he says dismissively, brushing the notion off as if it were poison. “To be quite honest, after I did my duty to my mother’s memory and ended my father’s reign of terror I had every intention of just going back to sleep. But, I couldn’t leave this place unguarded. The thought of managing something as large as Wallachia…” 

He shakes his head curtly. Staying awake had certainly given him its detriments, of course, but had he gone to sleep, Adrian would never have met you - he wouldn’t even be Adrian - he’d be _Alucard_ , cold and hostile and alone. 

So utterly, entirely, crushingly, alone. 

“Where would you go now if this wasn’t your obligation?”

Another silence permeates the still air now, one in which Adrian brushes aside all thoughts of quiet cottages in faraway sunny meadows in which the both of you can get lost out of his mind. “We’re getting off topic. I thought you wanted to learn about the threats.”

“Learning a little more about you wouldn’t hurt either,” you reply in a vague sort of way. 

_It will if you’re still going to leave after all this is over_ , he thinks, loathe to give pieces of himself that he won’t be able to get back once you’ve stolen them away. 

“Carmilla has to have taken one of the forgemasters for her own before she left,” he says, looking down at the book and beginning to read one of the last entries prior to where the pages go utterly and miserably blank. “ _‘I suspect my forgemasters are at odds again… their natures are so different. Few as the acceptable humans are in this world, even they cannot see on common grounds. I suppose it has to do with experience… Hector is swayed far too easily. In the end, only Isaac remains loyal.’_ ” Adrian shuts the book. “Partly conjecture, of course, but…”

“Carmilla has Hector,” you reason, catching on quickly, “and that’s where she’s gotten the resources to rebuild her army.”

Adrian nods, replaces the book on the mantle. 

“What happened to the other one - Isaac? If he was loyal, he didn’t run off before the battle, did he?”

“No, he stayed. And fought. And lived.”

“How?”

Adrian eyes the transmission mirror suspiciously. Your gaze flickers over to it, briefly, only to return a moment later to him, still searching for answers. “It doesn’t matter,” he smoothes over, coolly. “My father made sure Isaac left, whether to spare his life out of a sense of gratitude or with a certainty that he would continue his work should Dracula himself meet his end, I know not.”

Your eyes widen a little, more in surprise than in fear. “Would he really carry on with it? The mass genocide of his own people? Could he?”

“He could create an army of his own, should he wish. From what I’ve found, he's already more than begun.”

“What you’ve found? How do you even know any of this?”

Adrian sighs, pulls at his hair a little, his lack of sleep finally catching up with him. “There’s a mirror in the Belmont hold,” he begins, eyes shut. “A distance mirror. You call up the image you wish to see, and it allows you to spy unfettered, mostly. I can show you later. What I know is that sometime within the last two months,” Adrian walks back to the map, gestures to more markings he’s made which likely are illegible to you, “is that Carmilla has slowly begun to deploy the first stages of her own attack, but something seems to be slowing her advance, some sort of resistance.”

“Are people putting up a fight? Refusing to be conquered?”

Adrian snorts. “Potentially, though that is less than likely. Humans, even an army of them, don’t stand much of a chance against vampires and their war-bred night creatures, and especially not now. Nearly all major cities and villages between here and Styria have been pillaged to the point of utter docility by my father’s remnant hordes.”

“So...you think it’s something to do with Isaac? Acting out of… loyalty to Dracula?”

“ _Something_ is interfering. Something or someone has halted her progress. Capable of making an inherently loyal army, he does make the most sense.” His eyes flicker down, in thought. “I should probably mention that Isaac’s taken over a fortress in the south west, an old city run by a wizard mostly regarded as too troubled and senile to deal with seriously.”

Distantly, Adrian can only hope that his two favored brash idiots are not the reason Carmilla has slowed. That they are far, far away chasing down a speaker caravan and warmer climates and staying well out of and away from such atrocities. 

“The Belmont mirror told you that as well?”

“It let me spy on the exterior. I can see through windows of his tall tower, and occasionally he walks his grounds, turning fresh corpses into an army while he strategizes. I cannot see inside, however - it must be spelled against such things.”

“I… I never really thought about human wizards,” you say, staring at the floor, then at your own hands as if you expect to be declared one yourself by just casting another spell. 

It’s been such a long time since you’ve casted any magic, and Adrian finds himself missing your little bursts of flames and triumphant smiles at having mastered something new. 

_God, he’s going to be a mess when you leave._

_If you leave._

_As you should._

“They tend to keep to themselves, consolidate regional power, inspire fear or awe or some mixture of the two to get some tributes paid by placating humans either wise or gullible enough to comply. They’re becoming less prevalent, and as I said, vampires tend not to bother with them. With a mostly human lifespan, they are but a minor nuisance in the grand scheme of things, I expect. Hardly any different than kings, except kings would pay a tithe to my father in efforts not to have their kingdom eaten.”

“ _Eaten?_ ”

Adrian winces. Perhaps he should have just shown you everything through the distance mirror in the Belmont hold. It would have been more direct than trying to explain it all in words. 

Well, there’s still time for that. For now…

“I said I’d find you a house,” he swallows, a bit of color rushing to his face. He points out its location, marked on the map with a single circle plotted far away from the crosshatched army regiments and enemy strongholds that Adrian managed to copy from maps seen through the mirror. “That’s it there, and I can show it to you, if you’d like. Now. Using that.”

He points to the fragmented remnant of a bygone era, and you raise a single eyebrow. 

“It’s a transmission mirror,” Adrian sighs, his heels thudding against the floorboards as he strides to the object in pieces. 

You continue to stare at it doubtfully. “ _Is_ a transmission mirror? Or _was_?”

“Is.” Adrian waves his hand over the shards, and they spring to life around him glinting and poised like tiny daggers. “The trick is to trace the inscription on the correct pieces by memory. Once assembled, it serves as a doorway to anywhere in the world” he says, keen eyes flitting between the shards, index finger outstretched. “Carpathian is an old language, but it can still be learned.”

He’s had years of watching his father call the thing to life, and in the past weeks he’s summoned it a few times himself out of convenience at not having to trek all the way down to the hold for the less detectable distance mirror. There are two different inscriptions - one which serves as a portal, and a more complex one which turns the thing into a one sided distance mirror. He has had ample practice with both, but somehow it’s always more difficult to get the mirror started than he anticipates. After a few moments more that feel far longer than they actually are, the last pieces click together with the glimmering sound of cold ice scratched by a blade, and Adrian is faced with his reflection, who avoids eye contact. 

“It shows me what I ask it to. If you want to see you’ll have to come and stand in front of me. I cannot look away once the mirror is called.”

He focuses on a spot just above his shoulder in the reflection, extending one hand out to the side to beckon you near. The other hand rests against the glass, keeping it upright and at attention for him. This, he realizes only as you wriggle between him and the mirror, leaves a very small space for you to fit within, and as such, you press your back against his chest to keep your nose from hitting the glass. 

God help him if he doesn’t drop his outstretched arm and pull you just a bit closer. 

You stand with feet firmly planted, a look of curiosity mixed with determination rendering your features almost unreadable. Adrian can’t tell if any of what he’s told you has made the correct impact, if you understand the gravity of the situation. Your heartbeat, close now, is… surprisingly steady. 

You look at him expectantly. “Am I... supposed to be seeing something other than our reflections?” 

Adrian shakes his head a little, clearing the thought. 

It’s easy to call up the image, the house. The place he sincerely hopes you will like enough to call home. It only takes a thought, a single desire worked out of the labyrinthian mind of his, and the scene in the mirror changes. 

No longer does it show a dismal study, but instead, a trickling stream half-frozen in the ice of winter. Frigid water bubbles languidly over dark, smooth pebbles, carrying old leaves and pine needles along with it. Following the stream into the near distance, up a little hill, the mirror shows a watermill securely tied down, waiting to be used, for life to be breathed into it. Attached to the waterwheel is a moderately spacious building surmised of gray stone neatly cut and nestled between beams of wood. This is all housed under a sturdy roof with finely cut dormer windows perfect for stargazing above the humble meadow landscape flanking what is to become your new home, a border of dense woods just beyond that. Secluded, safe, ready to expand. 

“This is where I would send you,” he says softly, the words suddenly struggling to get out, held onto by his lips as tightly as he wants to hold you here, to keep you from leaving. “You take one step forward - I could get you so far as inside the living room.”

The image shifts, and you are both met with the wooden floored and stone walled interior, a little dusty, but otherwise intact as the watery rays of winter sunlight trickle in. There is a sturdy table, chairs. Not much by means of furniture, but the upstairs does have a bed, he knows, and Adrian of course could just throw some palace furniture after you should anything in the house prove wanting.

“If I go,” you begin, pressing back into him at the thought and holding onto his arm as if you half expect him to just shove you through the portal, “would I be able to come back?”

“Not on your own,” he answers, wondering for a long moment if he should shove you through, make the choice for you and just deal with how you would hate him afterwards. He isn’t sure he could stomach that latter notion, however, and instinctually holds onto you a little more tightly as a result. “I’d have to facilitate the portal on this end.”

You’re quiet for a long moment, staring at the mirror. “It is a lovely house,” you sigh, finally looking away, turning around to face him. 

Adrian lets his gaze fall to your face, and behind you, the mirror fragments itself and returns to its unassuming heap on the floor with a sound like a whispering ghost. 

“You like it, then?”

“... yes.”

“But?”

You flush a little, look down. “You won’t be there.”

“That is rather the point,” he says. “My absence inherently ensures your safety - at least at that distance, far away from all the dangers you would undoubtedly face at my side.”

“You don’t think Isaac will stop Carmilla?” You look up at him, stealing his gaze and causing the mirror to crack apart and fall gently to the ground as he loses contact. “There’s no chance that both our problems will cancel each other out and leave us in peace?”

“I hardly expect such luck, and regardless - they are not M\ _our_ problems,” he corrects you quietly. “They are merely mine. You have no stakes in this fight, you can still leave.”

“Do you want me to?”

_Yes._

_No._

“I want you to be safe,” he says, tearing himself away and turning his back to you, his arms folded inward, hands gripping his biceps tightly as he stares bitterly out the window where sunlight bounces off the snow with a brightness burning his sensitive eyes, making them shine just a little. “I want you to go and live in that cottage and start a life for yourself where you can spin thread and sew and raise goats and go back to the way you were before I ever got you tangled up in this mess.”

“Need I remind you that you got me out of what was sure to be a much bigger mess?”

Adrian chooses not to reply. “I can send you with the items bought at market. It would take but a moment to toss them through and follow suit. You’d want for nothing.”

“I’d want for you.”

His jaw clenches. “ _Don’t._ ”

“What will it take to let me stay?”

Outside, a lone dove flies over the bright landscape, feathers blending in with ice and becoming invisible even to his trained eyes. 

Barely, his head tilts enough for him to glance at you through his periphery. “What?”

You stare back at him, arms crossed. “How can I convince you to let me stay?”

“I don’t… I don’t understand -”

“I know my magic and swordfighting abilities aren’t exactly enough to hold off an army should they attack, but you just said that Carmilla’s forces have slowed for the moment.”

“... yes, but why or for how long is still unknown to-”

“And unless I very much misunderstood the nature of our chat last night and what that culminated in,” you step forward just as Adrian’s lip slides ever so subtly between his teeth at the memory. “You like me and I like you.”

“‘Like’ isn’t quite the word,” Adrian mutters, a bit of color on his cheeks, only added to by your sudden closeness, your steady heart.

“Hear me out,” you begin, eyes flickering between the two of his with an expression of cunning he’s never seen you wear before. “You and I go to the Belmont mirror, you show me everything in it that you’ve told me about.”

Adrian makes no attempt to protest what seems to be a very reasonable request. 

“And then you let me stay-”

“ _No-_ ”

“Listen,” you implore, reaching for his hands. “I’m guessing that part of the reason you feel the castle is unsafe has to do with all the blown out windows acting as easy ways in that don’t necessarily require permission.”

… well _now_ he does.

“So I stay here and help you board the place up while we wait for Carmilla and Isaac to either duel it out or move close enough to become an immediate threat. In the meantime,” you continue over an attempted interruption. “You teach me how to use the transmission mirror myself.”

“Why?”

You sigh, seemingly steeling yourself. “I don’t want to leave you, now or ever, but if you’re right, if this castle really is going to be attacked and I’ll only be a hindrance to you, a distraction from a fight, if my presence negates any chance of you winning…” you swallow. “Then I promise to run in here at the first sight of danger and fling myself to safety.”

Adrian, apparently, has forgotten to breathe as the idea catches up to him, as he realizes that it could possibly work. 

If you mean it, that is.

He lets himself hope. Barely. Faintly. “Would you really?”

“I wouldn’t be very happy about it, about leaving you here to fend for yourself. But… yes. If my having an escape plan is what convinces you to let me stay here a little longer, then so be it.”

“You’ll have to learn a new language,” he warns. “And Carmilla’s army is close enough to be here in a matter of weeks should she want to snoop around for any of the artifacts within these walls which would undoubtedly aid her path of conquest. If you postpone leaving, I…” he looks down. “I can only guarantee your safe departure if you leave now. In a few weeks… potentially even in just a few days, I don’t know what things will be like.”

Solemnly, or perhaps merely with a great amount of deliberateness, your steady hands reach for his, warming the coldness perpetually in his long fingers between your comparatively warm palms. “I know you’ll think me foolish for it, but… I’ll risk getting out safely and living the rest of my life alone if it means I get to spend even a week more with you here.”

“Do I... I really mean that much to you?” Adrian asks with a voice no louder than a single, incredulous whisper choked by disbelief and raw emotion he doesn’t have the strength to hide anymore.

You nod once, eyes never leaving his as you bring his hands protectively beneath your chin. “Yes.”

Adrian blinks, stares at the connection you’re maintaining. His gaze darts to the notes, the maps, the mirror beyond, and suddenly, it seems too much - all of it. All the odds stacked against him so visibly, all the signs that just when he thinks happiness is finally within his grasp, the cruel hands of fate snatch it away again. He feels himself sink to the floor, pulling you down with him as you refuse to let go. In a way, he’s grateful that you join him, worm your way between his legs and against his chest, stay close. Stay near. 

“You have no idea how much I wish the circumstances surrounding us were different,” he says bitterly as you reach for his hair out of what must be habit at this point. “That we were free to just… live, breathe. That I could give myself the proper amount of time to relax in a way that makes me more palatable to you, makes me less sharp.” 

“I’m not staying here for the things you are not,” you remind him, your touch moving to his jaw. “I’m staying for the you I have now.”

A shudder runs through him at that, his chill mixing with your warmth, your light.

“I know I said you should wait until I’ve told you everything to kiss me again,” he begins all sense flying out the window and joining the lone dove. “But, do you think-”

Before he can finish the drawn out thought, you move forward. The faintest gasp escapes his mouth, and two pairs of desperately starving lips press together softly, fitting like a lock and key made by a skilled smith. His hand gets lost in your own hair at the nape of your neck, his fingers gripping you just firmly enough to remind him that this is all real. That _you_ are real. That any of this is.

You aren’t safe, not yet, not until you learn the Carpathian well enough to call up the mirror, and even then, every moment will be a risk, but… as your hands rest on his scarred chest, as your tongue slips fearlessly past his fangs and strokes his bitterness turned saccharine at your gentle command, something stirs in his chest, some forgotten, long-dormant instinct that insists you are worth taking risks for, worth fighting for. 

_You are worth everything_ , he realizes. As that sudden thought hits harder than any physical blow you could have ever dealt him, Adrian knows with heavy resignation that watching you walk away when the time eventually comes will be infinitely more than it would have been today. When you leave, life will go with you, more so now than ever before. 

Your departure will be the death of Adrian, the rebirth of Alucard. 

Eventually. 

But, for now, he can secede the strategies, the plans. Alucard can fall back into the shadows while Adrian has his few moments more of precious, delicate, delicious sunlight.

For now, he just lets himself enjoy you.

Enjoy you while he still can.


	28. Progress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which more feelings are finally addressed and our favorite dhampir can start to heal a little more... 💛

The Belmont Hold is impossibly large, you find the following morning. You’ve slept more soundly than you had in the last two weeks of turmoil, sharing dinner and more longing looks with Adrian before retiring to your separate rooms for the night.  
Again, you’d invited him in, been softy denied with a tender kiss.

“Later. Once you see the Hold. The mirror there, the rest of this mess.”

You know your mind won’t be changed. You’re not naïve enough to ignore the state of disrepair of the castle now that you’ve taken to noticing anything in the architecture that could be used as a weak point of entry, a loose stone by a window or the gaping holes in several notable support walls. You know that the place is not safe should the vampire - Carmilla deploy her horde of night creatures. You know that you cannot be of any physical help. 

But emotionally, you can still do some good here. Perhaps, in whatever amount of time the pair of you have left, you can convince Adrian to leave with you. At the very least, you can help him to come up with some way to win the fight - inspire him in some manner. Remind him that there is still a life worth living despite it all. 

You watch the electric lights come and go across his face as the both of you descend into the caverns below on a rather nicely made pulley system which you suspect Adrian put together himself at some point. You can’t help but wonder what other talents he possesses, what skills his parents taught him which weren’t directly related to war or fighting or even just healing. What things did he do for fun when such a time still existed?

Has he _ever_ had fun?

Why haven’t you ever thought to mention it? In all the time you’ve been here, Adrian’s only ever stated a fondness for stars in his youth - and even that had been stated just two days prior. 

“What’s the difference between this mirror and the one in the castle?” you ask instead as the system stops and he offers you a hand to step out of the container which had ferried you down. 

“Difference in functionality or origin?” he asks, ever the scholar. 

“Both, I suppose. How many magic mirrors exist, anyway? Surely they can’t be all that different from each other.”

A slight smile at your incredulousness, the huff with which your warm breath expels into the cold winter air. “Enough to lose track of them all, but not enough to run into such items frequently,” he says, holding open a door only persuaded to move after a series of gestures are traced on the wood. “Mirrors like the one you’re about to see are far more common. They don’t allow for travel, but they do allow for spying. They’re newer, though still several hundred years old, and abide by different languages.”

You step into the next room, warmth beckoning you closer. “The one upstairs doesn’t allow for spying?”

“It does, but in order to negate the portal function of it one must inscribe a more complex spell into the pieces, and for fear of us getting it wrong and being found out, I felt this would be a better…”

Adrian trails off as he slowly notices the expression on your face, you’re sure, but you’re barely aware. The cold winter air has been shut out with the rest of the world, and you are left in perhaps the most magnificent, unfamiliar place you’ve ever been, all blanketed by a sense of utter stillness only found deep underground. 

In comparison to what lies before you, your mind reaches for its recollections of the castle libraries. They are almost equally spacious, of course, but they are tall, looming. Full of old architecture, of stone and lofty views of and aided by castle spires. Full of dark secrets which should never be unraveled. Cold light, deep shadows. Commemorative of quiet, obsessive study. 

_This_ place… it somehow reminds you of an old inn you might have visited once, where there are countless stories sleeping in the carving of initials on old ale-stained tables and dented tin mugs. Where the palace seems to exist outside of time in an ever-present, separate melancholy, the world before you is refreshingly human. Wooden beams cleave the earth, line the shelves, compose the floor. The dais in the center of it all, the many balconies and walkways suspended in midair. And the sheer number of books, of artifacts stuffed into unlikely crevices… down on the ground floor you think you see skulls in a display case, near a tall mirror sitting innocently in the middle of a wide isle. All of it, even the skulls, are bathed in something warmer than the castle.

It feels… hopeful, even. 

And yet…

“There should be more people here,” you whisper, eyes reading the scene as though it is some haunting eulogy in the pages of a tragedy. “This isn’t… this isn’t meant for two people, is it?”

Something heavy hangs in the air around Adrian as he stays just a few steps away. “No, it’s meant for far more than that, but… two is better than one.”

That catches your attention, and you look to Adrian again, his posture drooping as his hand rests forlornly on the nearest bannister. 

You take that hand in your own, listen to his sigh. “You miss them. Trevor and Sypha.”

He starts a little, perhaps surprised that you took care to remember their briefly mentioned names, but he does not deny it. “This was… I don’t know. We only spent a week or two together at most, the majority of which I wasted in the back of a wagon listening to them bicker about how to properly lead horses or which road was going to be faster.” A small smile tugs on his lips at the memory, and you wait for him to say more. “We barely even talked when we were down here, but nonetheless, we had a common goal. For the first time in my life, I wasn’t… it wasn’t just me, trying to get things done. I had… help, in all this. In killing my own father.”  
He shakes his head, absently brushes his hair back. 

“You are allowed to miss them, you know. Even if you didn’t know them for all that long.”

“This was his home,” Adrian gestures to the hold, to the ruins you passed by to get in. “His childhood. And he left it.”

There are repairs made to some broken bannisters and walkways that are much newer and in a slightly different style than the rest of the work, you realize upon closer inspection during this interlude between words, between coherent thoughts. The same wood that makes up the pulley system. 

“You’ve taken care of it, though. This place. This knowledge.”

A bitter scoff. “I suppose I pitied it. One abandoned thing to another.” He shakes his head. “I’m sorry, this conversation has gone to a much darker place than I intended for it to.”

“No, don’t be.” You squeeze his hand. “If you want to talk about this - about any of this, I’ll listen. I won’t leave.”

Adrian doesn’t look at you, instead staring directly at the steps before him, still holding your hand and moving nothing besides a tensed muscle in his jaw.  
“Another time,” he says in the same tone of voice which he uses to decline the offer to join you in bed at night. The tone which postpones lengthy, yet necessary conversations. 

The problem, you feel, as you let yourself be led down the stairs, is that there might not be another time. There is no longer a specific deadline in which you must make peace with saying goodbye, something which makes it seem as though you will _never_ be leaving. Yet, knowing that each day could be your last…

You aren’t sure how many conversations you can postpone before you must resign yourself to just never having them. Important conversations, too. Things which haunt his past, influence his present. 

_You want him_. You want to love him. You want to touch him. 

And you don’t know how much longer the both of you can wait before you ask him why he won’t stay with you at night, what makes him hesitate. How you can help. 

“The mirror is written in Chaldaic,” he explains. “You haven’t studied the books which use it in the castle, books of mathematics and sciences beyond your use.” He looks at the finely carved scrawl around the cracked mirror with some fondness. “It is a good language, one I know relatively well.”

“What does the inscription say, then?”

“It’s nearly impossible to translate one tongue into another without much of the meaning being quite lost, but…” he pauses. “‘Through distance unbound and skies unclouded, behold that of which you knew not but shall learn anon.’ Something akin to that.”

“I suppose it works in a very literal sense,” you say, just as you catch Adrian looking at you standing next to him through the mirror. “Do vampires have reflections?” 

“What?”

“There aren’t any mirrors in the palace,” you reason, not really sure why you’re asking this so late into your stay and curious nonetheless. “But I can see you in this mirror, so obviously…”

“This is an enchanted mirror, made to show and see any occult forces it might come into contact with,” he explains. “Though I show up in ordinary ones just fine.”

He sounds a little bitter about it, and you almost forget that the reason is likely to do with the scars on his body. Even so, you can’t imagine not wanting to stare at him, to admire the curve to his neck or the swell of his chest, the strength to his arms - 

“... why are you looking at me like that?”

You blink, fighting the bloom of color in your cheeks. “Like what?”

Adrian’s brow furrows a bit, but he shakes his head, once again signaling something put off for later. 

That will be the next thing you remedy, you decide, listening intently as Adrian explains the concept of this mirror in greater detail. You’ll listen to him explain Carmilla and her human forgemaster until the sun goes down, but at night… perhaps you can get Adrian to talk to you. To stop running from difficult subjects. 

_Later_ , you think begrudgingly, stepping aside so Adrian can get into the proper position to call the mirror. _Tonight_.

The next hour or so is spent with you huddled in a similar fashion to what you had done yesterday. Adrian at your back, one arm extended to the mirror, the other loosely holding onto you as if he wouldn’t know what else to grasp in your absence. You see a pale woman looming over a large table first, her crimson claws dragging across maps laid bare to your prying eyes. She looks like snow against spilled wine, or perhaps spilled blood, her nails matched by a long dress in a style and cut you’ve never seen before and accented by armor-like jewelry strapped across her shoulders. Had you not seen her face or the great stature at which she looms over the table, you might have taken her for one of the pallid, sickly noblewomen of the human court who are content to parade around wearing the latest fashions no one else could hope to attain as they acted as little more than ornamentation themselves. But her eyes, colorless, almost, are her sharpest feature, subtly so, and they rest above a fine nose and perpetually pursed lips which stand out almost garishly for their saturated pigment when compared to the rest of her. 

A blank, brutal shard of ice adorning herself in the colors of war, the colors of danger. Of blood, rage. 

No, this is no petty human aristocrat. What you are seeing is a different creature entirely.

The mirror then shows other views of the castle in Styria, from its exterior of cream stone dotted by dark, socketed windows that look like the cruel and captivating cavities of a boneyard amidst everlasting, dense white snow to dark dungeons, guards or creatures moving like shadows in the corners of the mirror’s vision.

“It is difficult to pull up specific people or rooms at will,” Adrian says with some strain to his voice, as if holding the image over such a great distance takes much of his concentration. “I’ve seen three other women with Carmilla before, huddled around that map, though not always. Not recently.”

“You matched it,” you realize, recalling similar markings. “Upstairs, in the study-”

“As I said, the transmission mirror can be used like this one. It just… it drags more, is more cumbersome that way. You must work against the inherent nature of the thing, like swimming against a current. I used it regardless because I didn’t want to leave you alone in the castle while I gathered information.”

A moment later, the view returns to Carmilla, and instead of studying her, you look at the room serving as her backdrop. Heavy curtains drawn shut to block out the light, a cabinet with dozens of pitchers filled with dark liquid.

Blood. Stored like wine. 

You can’t help but wonder if all vampires are like the one you study, so impossibly angular, so incredibly dangerous, and yet… with a sort of delicateness, the sense of something soft prevailing like a calming illusion despite the warnings so clearly visible. 

“Show me Isaac?” you ask, not wanting to see the woman scheme your own demise any longer. You resent the feeling looking at her gives you, that strange, twisting emotion that is equal parts admiration and revulsion, and turn a little to glance up at Adrian. 

You’ve never seen him so utterly void of emotion as he is now, the air of a perfect general replacing the tender sadness of just a few moments before. His eyes never leave the mirror, and a slight push of his chin is the only indication you have that the view before you has changed. 

A different fortress, now, viewed from a position on the ground. Not much is visible in the daylight, no creatures lumber about in the open sun, though there are dark clouds in the sky instead of the clear blue that you yourself saw on your walk to the hold which seem to tinge the whole scene in near darkness, the sense of a storm brewing. 

With an intake of breath that reminds you that the mirror is taking its toll on your companion, the view changes one final time, and you are given the sudden, surreal impression of hovering high in the air, peering at writhing shapes and sporadically flashing lights within the tower, snippets of red and bursts of white. 

“I can’t hold this,” Adrian winces, his grip on you tightening a little. “I can’t get any closer, there must be a ward-”

“Let go then,” you say, spinning around to look at him. “Don’t exhaust yourself, please.”

He hesitates for only the briefest moment before murmuring something in a language you don’t speak and shutting his eyes, his whole body going rigid and then relaxing with a sigh. 

You reach up, curled fingers resting on the underside of his jaw while the pad of your thumb rubs soft circles on his perfectly smooth cheek. 

The way you both exist now is different, the way you fit together. Had this action taken place but a week ago, you’re sure he would have jerked his head back. Still, a small fear of yours says that afraid he’ll reject your touch, step away. 

But he doesn’t. 

Maybe there is some hope for you yet, then. 

“I’m sorry. Magical mirrors aren’t my strong suit on the best of days, and I’ve…” he mutters. “You staying here just makes me more nervous.”

He sounds… exhausted. 

“You don’t need to apologize, Adrian I…” This close - you see the darkness under his eyes, the slope to his shoulders. “Did you sleep last night?”

Slowly, he shakes his head. 

“Talk to me,” you urge. “Please, let me help.”

His eyes remain closed, and a pained expression rises to his face. “Do we have to do this here? Now?”

“What, as opposed to later? Meaning never?”

He says nothing. 

“My staying here makes you nervous?” you prompt, mustering all your patience. “Because you’re worried about protecting me now?”

“Primarily, yes.”

“And secondarily?”

Adrian’s lips press together. “Many things,” he eventually rasps. “Things I genuinely don’t have the energy to voice a present.”

“Tell you what,” you say a moment later, gently enough to get Adrian’s eyes to flutter open. “Let’s find some books on … Carpathian, was it? The language I need to know to get the transmission mirror upstairs to work?”

He nods, once.

“And then we can go sit together somewhere and go over them. You can tell me all the ways I’m mispronouncing things.”

“You don’t have to speak the words,” he says, missing the point entirely. 

You just smile, reach for his hand. “Come on and show me where to look. This place is massive.”

“And incredibly disorganized,” he sighs mournfully. “I meant to devise some sort of system for all the books before… everything else happened.”

“Well that can be something we work on after this war is figured out,” you say, picking a random direction and starting off in it, pulling Adrian along behind you and trusting that he’ll correct you sooner or later. 

“Try the one on your left,” he calls, directing you down a side aisle. A while later, after you’ve already pulled a few books and found them to be in Latin, his soft voice murmurs, “Do you really think there’ll be anything after the war?”

“I mean I’m not really one to know,” you say, shoving a heavy volume back onto a shelf near your waist. “You’re the strategist of us both, but… one of us has to be optimistic, I guess. We can’t all be tragically beautiful, sulky half-vampires.”

“You aren’t at all alarmed by what I’ve just shown you? Carmilla or Isaac or any of it?”

“I-” You pull a book in a language you don’t recognize, pausing to show it to Adrian who shakes his head. You put it back. “I mean, I suppose I am somewhat alarmed, but I don’t think sitting around worrying about it will do anything.”

“Oh?”

Another book. You can’t seem to go through them fast enough. 

“Well, it’s like when you started teaching me magic when I was afraid of the night creatures. And we didn’t know if or when another would come. But learning magic got me out of that panic. It made me feel useful, even if I’m not all that valuable in a real fight.” You stare at your hands, only to look up and find Adrian’s eyes on you as you start to speak again, an emotion almost like pride glimmering deep beneath their surface. “Having some semblance of a plan is better than none at all, and…” you trail off, unable to explain yourself more with him looking at you like that. You blush a little, put another book hastily back where you found it. “What?”

Adrian glances down, a smile on his lips which flickers like candlelight. “You’ve… changed. From the person who first stumbled over my threshold.”

“Have I?”

He nods. “You don’t frighten as easily.”

“You helped me overcome that,” you say, trying to brush it all off, suddenly uncomfortable with the topic of conversation being turned back on you instead of him or on the damned books you cannot seem to find. “And in my former self’s defense, I had to come to terms with actual vampires being real and night creatures existing and all sorts of magic I wasn’t prepared for. At this point I don’t think much will surprise me, not like it all did at first.”

“Really? Nothing?”

It doesn’t sound as though he is challenging you on the matter. If anything, Adrian sounds pleasantly surprised. 

“I don’t know if I’ll ever get over automatically heated, easily running water, if I’m being honest.”

For the first time in nearly a month, there is a glimmer of light in Adrian’s eyes at your little joke, one that sends a jolt through your heart and the book in your hands fumbling out of grasp. 

You feel another blush on your cheeks as you reach down, as your hands meet cool fingers instead of hard leather. As you look up to find him crouched before you.

“So that’s the real reason behind your staying,” he says monotonously. “I am but second best to indoor plumbing.”

God you’d forgotten what it was like to joke with him, in that brief week before the first market visit when things were loose and carefree and the biggest trouble you had to worry about was sore muscles from intensive bouts of spellcasting. 

You stand up, bringing the book and his hands with you. “Indoor plumbing, feather mattresses... I do suppose you’ve figured me out,” you reply, careful to make your tone light and completely insincere. Despite him having brought the matter up, the last thing you want to do is add fuel to the fire behind what you sense are more serious doubts. 

Still, you are glad he’s feeling at least somewhat better, though what has brought such a mood on you cannot rightly tell. You do wonder, as he shoots you a wounded, wonderfully woeful look of despair befitting an actor in a tragic play, if you can get him to laugh. You’ve not actually heard him laugh, not really, even in all the weeks of your visit. Suddenly, or perhaps it is an old desire simply coming to light once again in this lapse between moments, you want nothing more. 

There is a faint smile on his lips as he looks demurely aside, hand still in yours as he surveys the aisle before him. 

“Let’s try a few over,” he says, guiding you now to a new set of shelves to look at. 

Nearly an hour later, you’ve become fairly proficient at identifying Carpathian, though the jagged letters mean absolutely nothing to you. Adrian has amassed a greater collection than you in books of relevance, but in total, you only manage to find four very old tomes altogether in all your search - him being responsible for three and you for one.

Though, to your credit, your book is much thicker. And older. 

“That took longer than I anticipated,” he frowns, muttering something under his breath about the previous inhabitants’ lack of organization once again. “It’ll be dark soon, and this place only has the one exit.”

_So if we are to be attacked, most likely at night…_

“Let’s go back, then. To the castle. I’m getting hungry anyway.”

He reaches for the stack of books, only to be stopped gently by your touch. “Don’t you want to bring them up to study?”

“I think that leaving that to lighter hours is a better idea than trying to focus on it now,” you admit. “I wouldn’t want to keep you up all night with the sound of my heartbeat, would I?”

It feels like forever ago that such a thing was a legitimate concern, a source of conflict between you and Adrian. 

His smile remains, but he looks away. “It’s not so much that I _hear_ it,” he explains. “It’s more like… I can feel it, the low tone of it at the base of my skull.” He clears his throat. “Regardless, it is not an unwelcome sensation, if you’re concerned about it. I… I like hearing it.”

_He could hear it much better if he stayed in the bed with me_ , you think. 

“Then perhaps you’ll join me in the study this evening? Listen to my heartbeat as I read or something, help me stave off loneliness?”

He pauses a minute, and you can’t decide if you think he’s going to decline again, see the offer for the opportunity to talk to him about those silenced questions that it is. 

To your surprise, that isn’t what seems to be troubling him as he sets the stack of books on a nearby table. “You get lonely?” he asks, voice soft as a whisper.

You swallow, think about it. “Without you? Yes. I used to have sheep to keep me busy, but… I’m realizing they don’t make the best company. They certainly wouldn’t do very well in a place like this.”

“The castle, you mean?”

You nod. “Knowing the history behind it all, what all the stony wounds came from.” You wrap your arms around yourself, suddenly cold as you think about Adrian fighting. Always fucking fighting. Against himself, against his family, his friends. “I can’t imagine any living thing to fare very well in those halls. It’s no wonder you’ve been so unhappy here. I would be too if I was left alone as its sole tenant.”

“My father seemed to have no qualms about it,” Adrian says thoughtfully, glancing at the door leading out of the hold. “He lived like that for decades before my mother showed up and demanded he let her in. Even then, she lived elsewhere most of the time. Led her own life.” He looks down. “I thought that was what I was supposed to do too. Be… fine with it. Loneliness.”

At his sides, Adrian’s hands clench into loose fists. For some reason, you can’t stop staring at them. 

“Humans are social creatures,” you say simply, taking a few steps towards him. “We’re not meant to be alone forever.”

“You’re including me in your categorization of mankind?”

“Yes. I doubt full vampires fare well under the same conditions themselves.”

If you’ve gathered anything about Adrian’s father, it's that he certainly didn’t benefit from solitude as much as one might think. You wonder if the thought of being alone again is what drove him to the lengths Adrian’s told you about, if the passion was not out of rage but from fear. 

And you wonder if Adrian, as tangled up and close to the matter as he is, can’t quite see that yet.

“I’m sorry for letting you alone to study,” Adrian says softly. “Those weeks when I thought you were leaving. I didn’t intend for you to feel lonely. I certainly didn’t intend to send you off to a cottage somewhere only to be met with a similar sentiment.”

“I know.” You reach for his hand again, close. 

He’s quiet for a very long time, staring at the place where flesh is joined, where fingers curl so gently around each other, twining in a dance as if they were made of old, fraying parchment and not the sturdy bones which are capable of holding so much pain. For those hands don’t seem strong, not now. Yours which can cast fire and his which could slash out your throat should they wish. 

“It’s… you’ll think me strange for saying it,” he whispers, a thickness to his words. 

You shake your head. Press a little closer still. 

“I didn’t think others felt like that. Lonely. I thought it was just me.” His forearm swipes at his eyes, he looks away. “And maybe that’s just because I’ve not known anyone else to be alone. Not in the way I am. Trevor, Sypha… they have each other now, and even before. They’re both human.”

“As are you.”

Adrian scoffs. “No. I’m not. There is human in me, and vampire, but I am neither. There are no other pitiful creatures like me as far as I am aware, no happy fledglings of a union between predator and prey. So, I am, in the literal sense, alone in my own existence.”

Christ, the sadness radiates out of him. Seeping from every pore, every fiber of his solitary being.

“I don’t even have ambitions - I never wanted to do anything with my life besides sleep in a coffin somewhere until someone needed me for something.”

“Would sleeping blot out the loneliness?”

Adrian shakes his head. “I thought it might, once. But… it doesn’t seem to go away.”

“Ever?”

He turns, slightly. “It… it does when you’re here.”

“You make me less lonely too, you know.”

“Oh, I’m terrible company,” he protests. “Your standards are low.”

“Are they? You think it takes someone with low standards to love someone like you?” You step in front of him, confronted by watery eyes and a tense jaw. “Someone with your gentleness and intellect and -”

Adrian steps away, and a rush of cold air hits you instead. “Someone like me,” he mutters, voice raw. Spent. “As in broken, and therefor ruined.” 

Your heart sinks. Hadn’t you gotten past this? Hadn't you made him see - on the walkway under the stars? What is this last hurdle, this last haphazard barrier between the pair of you?

How can you clear it?

_Can_ you?

“Let’s go upstairs,” he says, sharply. “Before it’s too dark. Too late.”

“We’re not done talking-”

“I am.” 

You say nothing for a while, and he turns to look at you, anguish in his eyes. 

“Please,” he says. “Leave it.”

“You’re hurting.” You step closer, your own voice starting to wear and crack. “You’re hurting and you won’t be near me at night and I need to know why.”

“I already told you I don’t have the energy for this conversation.”

“You’re deflecting me-”

“Maybe.”

You blink. 

He looks away, traces the edge of the table with his nail. “Why is every conversation we have so difficult? You’re not what makes it so,” he clarifies quickly. “I just… with the others, with Trevor and Sypha, I… it wasn’t like this. Emotional, or… whatever you call it.”

“I’m guessing you and Trevor and Sypha weren’t kissing though,” you say. “And that was before…”

“Yes?”

“Everything that happened to you.”

Adrian sighs. “That’s… that’s the problem,” he seems to decide, fisting his hair as he leans against the table, presents you with his profile. “I suppose I’ve always been like this, cold, distant. You have the misfortune of knowing me _now,_ as opposed to _then_ when those qualities have only grown more prevalent in my already lacking personality.”

“That isn’t your fault, and it doesn’t change how I see you. Nor how I feel about you.”

“...It changes other things, however,” he counters, quietly. “Physical things. Things which I want to do but can’t. Things which require reliving if I am to speak of them to you. Things I do not have the energy for.”

He looks to you, slowly, agonizingly, and you realize what that last barrier is.

The corpses, the ones you’d burned. The ones that defiled and betrayed him and touched him with burning hands before yours had the chance to soothe.

They haunt him even still.

Never have you wanted to hold him to you more, to comfort with touch what words cannot reach. Tentatively, not wanting to add to the problems already at the forefront, you reach out to him once more, carefully, deliberately. 

Adrian looks at your hand for a moment, and takes it again with a weary sigh, bringing it up against his lips. “I am sorry for the way I am,” he says. “I don’t expect you to understand.”

“I… I do know what it’s like to be bound up and uncertain of what will happen next,” you remind him. “I know it isn’t exactly comparable.”

“It is comparable. Don’t mistake me, I’m glad you didn’t go through what I did. Especially since it seems as though you might have been headed for a similar fate had you not escaped. Found your way here.”

You shudder, and hold his hand just a bit tighter, the both of you acknowledging something beyond yourselves, some sort of fate which has spared you from worse and him from complete and utter madness. 

“This is new to me, you know,” you say, gesturing to where you are linked. “Kissing you. Touching you. I have no idea what I’m doing most of the time.”

“I know,” he says. “Not by the way you do any of it,” he rushes, his mouth evidently working before his mind. “But just… because that’s what you’ve said. About your...past.”

Adrian clears his throat, and you join him against the table, giving him time to think. 

“Logically, I know that you won’t hurt me of your own volition should we take things further. Logically, trust you.” His hair falls over his face, obscuring his profile. “But my body… it seems to have a mind of its own. That sort of thing is so strongly linked with death and pain that… I don’t know, I get this irrational fear that there’s a dagger or something in your garter and you’re just waiting to stake me with it. That the rest of it, the talks and the smiles and _this_ ,” he gestures to your hands still linked “is nothing more than a cruel and cunning plot once again at my expense.”

He scoffs at himself, shrinking down and somehow managing to seem small. 

“You’re always more than welcome to do a cursory inspection of my garters before we begin,” you tease, trying to make light of the situation somehow. 

Adrian’s shoulders shake with a single, surprised huff of air which you almost count as a laugh. 

“How lucky I am that you are so obliging to satisfy my little bouts of paranoia.”

“I am somewhat serious, you know,” you say, smoothing your skirt. “This doesn’t have to be something that we do in the heat of a moment or whatever. We can talk about it, set rules, do things in stages. Go at your pace until you’re comfortable with it.”

“Is that not bordering on pedantic?” he asks as if the idea has been shot down in his own head before. “I thought the point to this sort of thing is supposed to be spontaneity.”

_Is he still worried about being boring?_

“Spontaneity does not suit nor favor you,” you say as kindly as you can, sliding around so that you are looking up at him, leaning into his lap. His eyes, fraught with worry and the fear of somehow disappointing you, search yours. “You are careful plans, thought out strategies. You were trained to command armies, to give instructions, were you not? Vampire general and all that?” A slight smile tugs at your lips. “So, command me. Tell me what to do.”

He blinks again, his mouth slightly agape, before shuddering, shaking his head. “I’ll certainly not be doing any of _that_.” He peers up at you. “But… if you feel that ground rules are something… useful, I suppose...”

“Think on it,” you urge, standing up, still holding his hand. “You are right though. It’s getting dark and we should get back inside.”

“Shit,” he starts, as if the time had escaped him entirely. His eyes dart to you then to the door at the other end of the hold.

“What?”

He pauses. “Flying would be faster than waiting for the mechanism to take us up. It would be safer.”

With everything that's happened since the last time you’d flown, you’d almost forgotten that the opportunity is no longer impossible for you to experience. There’s a genuine grin you cannot stop from spreading across your face, and you notice that a bit of color rises to Adrian’s cheeks as he stares at it, transfixed. You step closer, all the energy of a girl much younger in years presented with an especially lovely toy thrumming through your chest as you fall into that familiar position against Adrian, his arms resting beneath you and keeping you off the ground. For a moment, he just holds you there, taking a deep breath in. You’d taken a bath the night before, and wonder if he’s smelling your hair. 

You feel his arms tighten, and in a moment, the both of you are weightless, shooting up past dusty old disorganized shelves, past wooden beams and warm lights. A few moments later you’re outside, the door to the hold sealed behind you, and you’re rising out of that earthy pit and into the tail end of a sunset, tinges of peach clinging to a pale blue sky. 

You pause at the top of the arc, Adrian scanning the horizon for any sort of threat, you watching his stoic face lit by the fading sun. You nestle a bit closer into him, reminding him to relax, to rejoin you in the tangible world of the living. A soft smile plays on his lips in appreciation, and soon he carries you over the servant’s entry and places you upright on the flagstones as if it is the most natural thing in the world. Perhaps it is. 

The rest of the evening feels like that, as if some great chasm has been cleared or at least addressed. Adrian doesn’t say much more for the rest of the evening, but it is not the silence which you have been worried of before. It is not distant. He’s quite present as you both prepare dinner for a change, him sliding you a knife with which to cut vegetables while he spices the broth. The food which was bought at market has not been tapped into yet, and acts as the only reminder of what might have been as it sits in the cellar, waiting for its use. 

Adrian is deep in thought when you sit down to dinner, deep in thought when you finish. He doesn’t begin sentences only to end them, nor does he stare blankly off into a realm you yourself cannot see. You do not fill the silence either, finding that it does not need to be filled. You do not need to speak to understand each other like this, when you’re just living. Existing. Helping with the dishes and sweeping the floor. This is easy. 

And if this is all you get from him, if beds are not shared again, if a chaste kiss is all you can muster…

You don’t really mind. 

That’s the one thing you feel like you should break the silence for and tell him, before the night claims you both, and as Adrian walks you to your room, as the door opens and you would normally be preparing an invite in for the night, you intend to.  
But he kisses you instead, softly, tenderly, briefly. “Thank you,” he says, staying near. “For talking. For making me talk about it.”

“Anytime,” you reply, meaning it wholeheartedly. “Even if nothing physical ever comes from this. I’ll always be here to talk things through. I promise.”

There’s a bit of shine to his eyes which he tries to blink away, a shine which you don’t remark on. You don’t need to. 

You cup his jaw once more, plant a rosebud kiss on his cheek.

Leaving him in the hall feels empty. Feels incomplete. But you do not push it. "I’ll be here when you’re ready, too,” you say in lieu of your normal invite in. “In whatever capacity you want me. I’ll be here.”

Adrian’s face softens once more, and before you know it, he’s pulled you close one last time, his arms around your waist, his nose buried against your shoulder. “You shall be my undoing,” he says, raw words ending the raw day. 

“Only if you want me to be.”

A slight rumble in his chest, a breath of air against your skin. 

“Oh my dearest love,” he smiles. “I welcome it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy (nearly) New Year everyone! I wish you all the best in this endeavor and hope you all stay safe in any and all festivities you partake in to celebrate. 
> 
> Writing this fic has turned into perhaps my longest consistent project, and I'm forever grateful to those of you who read and return each week and find any sort of joy or comfort in my many, many words.
> 
> I'll be turning on music and recklessly twirling around my house in something sparkly to celebrate the passing of an equally great and terrible year, and invite anyone interested to do the same ✨
> 
> 💛I love you all💛


	29. Old Wounds

The next few days pass like a dream for Adrian. The both of you spend much of your time in the Belmont hold, you learning Carpathian and him drawing up the occasional drafting plan for repairing the damages to the castle. The mechanism room which used to move the thing is a particularly weak point of entry, the large window leading outside entirely shattered thanks to Sypha’s rather blunt but effective tactics. Adrian hadn’t put much thought into the castle when he was in those first few months of solitude. Fixing up the Belmont hold and what he could of the estate had seemed like more pressing obligations. Perhaps, as he had said, he pitied the place and its reminders of tragedy. It certainly seemed easier to fix someone else’s mess of a home than it was to fix his own. 

But then, of course, Taka and Sumi had happened, and not much had gotten done in terms of rebuilding after that. And now, the winter chill made things more difficult. Not necessarily for him - Adrian’s body doesn’t seem to have much of a reaction to extreme temperatures in the way that a normal human’s would, but the moisture of snow and the cold air makes wood more frigid and potentially damp than it should be for building, and then the projects had always taken second place to taking care of you once you’d arrived. 

It slowly begins to dawn on Adrian just how much you trust him in those next few days. He knows you’ve read up on the books about vampires he’d given you, that you know he’s capable of terrible things. As he thinks incessantly on what rules he’ll ask you to follow in order to keep him from lashing out in panic when you do get closer, Adrian himself becomes painfully aware of all the ways in which he can hurt you. 

You shouldn’t push him down, you shouldn’t try to restrain him. As it stands, Adrian should keep his sword very far away in case emotions run high and he can’t think straight. If any of his more vampiric urges should present themselves - a possibility he has no idea how to predict the probability of - you should leave. Or let him leave. 

Perhaps he is overthinking it. He knows he likely is. 

But he also knows that every time he’s afraid of his claws slipping out, his fangs lengthening, his eyes turning red, you place a soft hand over his clenching fists without looking up from the book you’re reading or the notes you’re transcribing. You don’t comment on it, you don’t outright ask him to tell you what is on his mind. You’re merely reminding him that you are here, and that should he want to bring the matter up, he can. 

You also get a little closer physically, in those few days. You still retire to separate rooms at night, but Adrian’s hands have done a brief inspection of your body in the dark evening hours, the both of you sprawled on a chaise and moments from sleep. He likes touching you, he likes being near you, and finally knowing you won’t run away out of fear anymore is more of a comfort than he will ever be able to express. He’d meant what he said that day in the hold - you have changed. For the better. He is not so naïve as to think that it’s entirely his doing, of course, but there is some inkling of pride in it, of feeling useful to you in a way which doesn’t drain him. A way which feels sustainable.

_Is this sustainable?_ he wonders one night after you’ve gone to sleep, your steady heartbeat echoing in his very being as he copies the shapes of the shattered Carpathian mirror and their corresponding inscriptions. Can he really dare to hope that there could be a life for him after the war, one which does not involve being isolated in these barren halls forever nor giving up his senses entirely to a dark, lonely rest in a coffin which cannot blot out his bad dreams? The castle, as oppressive as it is, brightens in your presence. It is less quiet, less dead. Less tomblike. 

He doesn’t let himself dwell on it. Doesn’t dare let himself hope. All he can do is pray to some forgotten god that when the time comes, when you have to leave, you will do so without hesitation. That when presented with the choice to go, you will uphold the agreement. 

Maybe then he’ll be able to face his death with at least some moral standing on his ambiguous conscience. 

“I don’t know this one,” you say from where you sit across from him, an old Carpathian tome spread before you.

Adrian blinks once into focus, honing in on where the two of you have carved out a section in the language wing of the Belmont hold several days after first venturing into it, and then cranes his head to where your finger is marking a ruin in the rather old book. “It means ‘to guide,’” he says, watching with amusement as you scribble that down on an extra sheet of faded parchment. 

“I assume that’s on the mirror as well?”

“In a sense. ‘Guidance into the unknown’ has its own way of being written, and some of the lines shift-”

You groan, audibly, and are about to drag your hand across your face when Adrian grasps your wrist to prevent you from smearing ink all over. 

He knows it was a mistake almost instantly. You jump a bit, freeze. 

Adrian lets go as if you burn him. “You - sorry, you had ink on your fingers, I thought-”

“It’s alright,” you say hastily, though the shake to your voice conveys otherwise as you hold your arm protectively to your chest. 

For a moment, Adrian just stares at you, listens as you fight your racing heart. As he fights his. “If that’s something you don’t like, me touching your wrists… please say so,” he asks, almost silently. He’s fixed his gaze on the table - in shame, perhaps. He should have realized, with your being bound -

“I don’t like being grabbed,” you say reluctantly a few moments later, not moving much yourself. “I didn’t mind any of the gentler touches you gave me there before, just not…”

“Understood,” he exhales, clenching the table as the breath he’d been holding whistles past his teeth. “I wouldn’t appreciate that either. I... am sorry, that was not my intent, to make you uncomfortable.”

A pause. 

“This is all… rather new to me as well. I’ve not done any of this before in a way that was aware or consenting. I’m afraid I still don’t really know how to go about… contact. Touching you.”

“You’ve carried me almost every day -”

“That was to serve a purpose. This is... different,” Adrian bites, fighting the urge to get up from the table and deal with this mess in his own mind from the safety of some darkened corner. “This is…” he shakes his head. “You’re _staying_. Everything I do, if I do it wrong, is permanent. If I hurt you, I’ll have to see it every day in the way you look at me afterwards. I can’t send you away and rid myself of my sins, nor do I want to.”

His hands are clenched again on the table, the hint of claws digging into the soft flesh of his palms. Veins push against his white-knuckled skin as if they too feel ready to burst, unable to be contained. 

You say nothing for a long while, and when Adrian dares to look up, he finds your face has grown quite twisted. 

For a terrifying instant, he’s afraid he’s upset you somehow, said the wrong thing, done the wrong thing-

“You think I’m going to hate you if you ever make a mistake?” you ask, incredulous. Or, at least, Adrian thinks that is what the tone of your voice conveys. Your words are said as though they’d come from a long contemplation which only just yielded clarity. 

Perhaps you are not angry, after all. 

When Adrian does not deny the summation of his most recent fear, your face softens back into an expression he knows well, and you lightly place your hands over his tensed fists. “I said before that I’d forgive you if you unintentionally hurt me. I can’t expect you to memorize everything about me after all, it's bound to happen sooner or later.”

“So you agree then, you feel I am… dangerous?”

The resignation in his voice is palpable. 

You shake your head quite vehemently. “That is not at all what I am saying.” Your fingers fight their way past Adrian’s tension, place themselves between his and hold tightly. Your brow furrows again, though it is softer now. A look of concentration. 

“I love you,” you say for perhaps only the second time ever, effectively halting Adrian’s voice in his chest and urging his furnace of a heart to ignite into flame. “And I will always love you. You are not your mistakes. There are no conditions to what I feel for you, nor how I see you.”

When Adrian tries to speak, he finds that his voice has really quite left him, but as you seem to be searching for a response of some kind, he clears his throat. Makes the effort to say something, _anything_. “Is it… is it not naïve to forgive so easily?”

“There’s no malice behind your mistakes, Adrian,” you reply so simply, and yet, it shatters him whole. 

“....what? I mean, I - of course I would never intend to-”

“I _know_. That’s what I'm saying - I know that if you grab me once -” you jostle his hands “and I tell you not to do it again, you _won’t_. And I’ll do the same for you. That’s what the rules are for. That’s why we talk about this sort of thing.”

“Do you give everyone such benefit of the doubt? 

“I don’t assume malice when inexperience or accident will suffice. Do you not?”

“No,” Adrian realizes with a jolt. Even before Taka and Sumi had severely warped his ability to trust others, Adrian had been trained to expect attacks, to see danger in the rustle of a cloak as a hand reached beneath for a weapon. He couldn’t afford to dismiss suspicion of threat lest he wind up dead. “I’m… well, I'm starting to think that might not necessarily be my most redeeming quality, my inability to find good in others.”

“I think it’s a product of your previous circumstances,” you say, comforting him once again in that special manner of yours. “I do hope you can trust me to be different, of course, but I understand if… well, old habits die hard.”

“Paranoia does seem to be an inherited trait, unfortunately,” Adrian sighs, meaning to slip away from your grasp to fist his own hair. You don’t let him go.   
“The offer to check my garters for weapons still stands.”

Your eyes, capable of changing from fear to mischief in a matter of moments, sparkle with the latter as you raise an eyebrow, watching in delight as a blush runs to Adrian’s cheeks, as he looks away in mild embarrassment.

“But only if you want to.”

Adrian chuckles a bit at that, feeling your hands squeeze insistently once more before loosening, letting him pull back should he desire it.  
Somehow, he finds that he doesn’t.

“I… I _do_ ,” he says, referring more to the offered act as a broader thing than just a cursory inspection. “The problem becomes… where will it take place?”  
“What do you mean? Does a bed not suffice?”

Adrian grimaces, involuntarily thinking of what had happened the last time he’d been in bed with anyone in that sort of context. What had happened to you the last and only time he’d slept with you in a literal sense all those weeks ago now, how close he’d come to hurting you. It’s been nearly a month, and yet the pain of it all is as fresh as if it had been yesterday, his hand closed around your neck, the fear in your eyes. 

The downside to a vampiric sense of memory, he presumes. 

“Stay in my room tonight,” you urge, having not asked outright the question in days. “Or we can pick a guest room with a roaring fireplace. Nothing has to happen, but… if the idea of intimacy is something you want to work up to, we could start small again. Fall asleep together.”

Adrian pauses, considers. “Well… I suppose the idea is less daunting in a room belonging to neither of us.”

“Neutral ground,” you nod, as if having already thought of such a thing. “The last thing I want to do is rush you into something you aren’t ready for,” you look down woefully at the book still sitting before you, old ruins in dark ink staring back. “But if danger really is so imminent, if we could be attacked at any moment and you are taken from me or I from you…”

“Would goodbyes not be easier if they are detached?”

You snort, and Adrian realizes with fresh horror that there is a new wetness to your eyes. “Hell if I know. I just… you’re the only person I am ever going to want to do this with. I meant what I said at Yule- you’ve ruined every other man in the world for me. If I don’t do this with you, here, relatively soon or at least before we get attacked, I… I never will. And I _want_ to, Adrian. I want you.”

He blinks at your pretty words, their heartfelt sincerity. A bit of warmth pools somewhere beneath his stomach, and he feels his heartbeat quicken with the unfamiliar but not entirely unwelcome sensation.

“Of all the people you could have fallen in love with,” he whispers, somewhat awed, “you chose _me_.”

“It wasn’t really much of a choice,” you shrug.

Right. “Yes, your previous prospects were rather lacking, I suppose. Farm boys acting in their own interest and all that.”

You smile like you know something that he doesn’t. “I meant more along the lines of I was bound to fall for the beautiful, lonely dhampir with soft hair and lovely voice. I’ve been smitten since that day we went for a walk.”

If Adrian were any less surprised he might have the sense to be embarrassed. But, as you sit there looking at him with such tenderness, the only thought he has is that he isn’t sure when he started loving you, exactly, just that it happened and he was so torn by desire clashing with common sense that he almost lost you - he almost sent you away without ever confessing, without ever having the chance to take you to bed, let you fix his broken soul in that last final way. 

“I didn’t let myself love you for a long time,” he admits, softly, looking down. “I didn't think you could love me, or that you should, or that I'd be able to stay sane long enough for it to last. But…” he swallows. “After we went to the market - the first time, I… you came and _found_ me. Burned away my past so fiercely. I think… that’s when I let myself think about it. For the first time. What it might be like if…”

His gaze falls on your lips, which you do not miss. They smile softly, and you lean forward just a bit. 

“If?”

His mind is nearly emptied now, so focused are his eyes on those lips, pursing like rosebuds and bound to be just as sweet. What was it that he'd been saying?

“If I got to do this,” he whispers with his half-recollected intentions, mouth nearly against yours. Open, teasing. Not quite a kiss - this is something distinctly more wolfish. “Fearlessly. Every day. Forever.”

Well, perhaps not _forever_. After all, you will, at some point, inevitably-

You moan a little, closing the gap and turning whatever it was Adrian was thinking to water trickling over rocks in a stream - gone in an instant and turned into a shimmering collection of consciousness. He’ll never get used to your kisses, never be bored of them. They are magic, capable of necromancy, of bringing his dead soul sputtering back to life like some fairytale.

_Closer_ , he thinks. _I need you closer. Damn the consequences._

Of their own accord, his feet push against the ground, the bench he was sitting on scrapes back as his tall form leans up and over the table, as you, sensing his shift, work in tandem to match it, to abate that hunger in his stomach, that ache for _more_ -

A clatter of glass makes him jump back, only to find black ink trickling along the grooves in the table and nearing the centuries-old Carpathian tome.   
“Shit,” he says, sounding rather like an affluent prince denied his simple pleasures as he picks up the book and your notes. In some ways, he supposes that he is.   
The thought never really occurred to him before. Prince of vampires, a half-breed. 

Strange indeed, especially when you’re still staring at him with all the desire of a few moments prior. 

“I think that’s probably a sign to stop studying,” you say, tilting your head playfully. 

“I’d say it's more of a sign that Belmont will admonish me for not taking better care of his family inheritance,” Adrian counters, frowning at where the ink seeps into the dark mahogany table which might have once been quite beautiful. 

“Well, then I’d have to defend your honor, tell him it was a rogue hobgoblin looking for a snack.”

_The look on Belmont’s face should you tell him such a thing..._

Something catches in his throat, some sound Adrian can’t quite recall the sensation of. Just the thought of you standing with all your pride, glaring down that rugged, half-drunk disaster of a man with such a boldfaced lie-

You’re staring at him with widened eyes, mouth agape but smiling ever so slightly. You look utterly awestruck. 

Laughter.

The feeling, the flutter in his chest and the expelled air - he’s _laughing_. 

Where the hell had he learned how to do that?

A similar sound tumbles from your ever-taunting lips, and the answer comes to Adrian like sunlight through clouds. _You_. He’d learned to laugh again from you. 

“What, don’t you think I could take him?” You goad, placing your hands mockingly on your hips and tilting your nose up in the air. 

“Quite the contrary,” Adrian says, moving a little closer. “In all matters aside from perhaps physical combat, I’d say you have him quite beat. Even so, I don’t think he stands a chance against your energy spells.”

You’d only been trying to get him to laugh again, Adrian realizes as your face darkens a little. He’s ruined the moment’s mirth once again. Why on earth can he not just be happy for once?

Your eyes catch on the tips of his hair, and stepping forward, you reach for the ends, inspecting some trails of black ink nestled amongst the gold. His whole shirtfront is covered with the stuff, splashed along his stomach like a spray of blood. 

“I’ll never cast that one again, I think,” you say softly, focusing intently on the strands. “Faked or not, I… the sight of you sprawled out lifeless on the floor…” you shake your head. “I never want to see that again - I never want to _think_ about you in that situation again. 

“You didn’t hurt me - you couldn’t, not like that,” he quickly counters, trying to soothe you, to brush over the subject he’d been foolish to bring up. 

You just shake your head. “It doesn’t matter. Someone else, something stronger and crueler than I - they _can_. Hurt you like that.” You sigh. “I… I wish you could leave this place. This life, this… constant worry.”

“I suppose you’d want me to come and live with you?” He muses, not even truly aware of what it is he’s offering. “Have more conversations like this where I find myself inadequate at bestowing proper affection and end up feeling even more exhausted?”

Adrian looks down his nose at you, appraising. 

“Would that really be so terrible? Talking more about our problems and then getting through them season by season? When compared to just… festering around here alone?” 

Your hand not covered in ink reaches for his jaw, your thumb running over the muscle tensing there, your fingers hit with his sigh of defeat. 

“I suppose not,” he admits after awhile, tilting his head low. “Though I’m pretty sure I’m going to be exhausted by both soon enough.”

“If you’re exhausted by me-”

“No, not you… By myself, if anything.”

You smile. “Then let's rest. I know enough Carpathian paired with your drawn out guide to have made myself a key,” you gesture to your scribblings on the table. “I know the words to awaken the mirror. We can test it tomorrow.”

A nagging voice in the back of Adrian’s mind urges him to press on with you, to test the mirror tonight, to make sure that you can get away as soon as possible should such a thing prove necessary. 

But his best shirt is covered in ink that will stain permanently if he doesn’t do something about it soon, and he is exhausted in his own right…

“We test it first thing tomorrow morning,” he relents, feeling not entirely sure of his decision but delighting in the way it makes you grin nonetheless. 

“Great,” you say, taking his hand in yours and grabbing your notes as you lead him away. “Let’s go find a guestroom which hasn’t been smashed open.”

Adrian allows himself a soft, slightly embarrassed laugh at the state of his own castle, and follows you into the world above, the darkening winter skies adding a chill to the air he only recognizes by the shiver to your shoulders as a gust of wind plays with your loose hair. You’ve really been with him in the coldest of months thus far. It strikes Adrian as you both rush to the relative warmth of the castle that you would be very well suited to spring. He imagines flowers tucked behind your ear, a hearty flush to your cheeks as you sit near a stream, giggling and trying not to fall in. The both of you baking bread with open windows, the threat of invasion gone or at least greatly diminished by the cheer to the outside world which comes with the longer days. As you lead him through the servant’s door, out into the main hall, Adrian even imagines waking up next to you on those sunny mornings, his arms pressing into your soft skin as though you were a vibrant flower brought in to be preserved between the pale pages of rough books. 

When Adrian realizes how desperately he yearns for that life with you, his steps falter just a little. You don’t seem to notice it, with your human gait wonderfully imperfect as it is, but…

For the very first time, Adrian can see that there really might be something worth living for. That sending you away in order to await his own death might not have been the master plan he thought it was. How, if you were gone and someone attacked, Adrian wouldn’t have even put up a fight. Not really. 

Had he wanted to die?

The thought stops him dead, the stinging horror of it setting in, reminding him all too much of his father blinded by grief, searching for an end in the disguise of something productive, something righteous. 

You notice that he no longer follows you, of course, just as you’re about to reach the steps. 

“Adrian?” Your hand squeezes his gently, nudging him back to the present. He finds himself looking down, processing his sudden revelation, trying to decide how to vocalize such a sentiment, such an overwhelming truth - you’ve made him want to live. 

There aren’t words - or at least he cannot find them - to express the way his chest aches even while his heart soars, nor the way that just the scent of you is enough to calm his nerves, his anxieties. 

“I love you,” he says instead, finding the sentiment to be the closest thing as he swallows, looking up to where you stand on the first step. “You said it in the Hold, I’m saying it back. I love you.”

A strange sort of smile, one laced with good natured suspicion, tugs at your mouth as you step down from the staircase and come closer. Once more you reach for his jaw, guide it down to meet yours. “I love you too,” you say, fulfilling the triad of utterances. Once on the starry breezeway, once in the hold, and once now. Words for Adrian, fleeting as they may sometimes be, are precious things, instances worth counting, collecting. Keeping. 

“But seeing as I have only the two dresses I’d prefer that this one not get stained by ink, so as much as I would love to kiss you right now -”

“Understood,” he says with unexpected warmth. “That can be remedied, I’m sure.”

Of course, the fastest remedy would simply be to take the stained shirt off, but… well, one thing at a time. 

Brushing your knuckles against his lips in lieu of an actual kiss, Adrian walks up the stairs at an even pace with you, not letting go of your hand until he’s in the guest wing. The castle had never seen any guests in his lifetime aside from the war council and the two he himself had been harboring ever so briefly, Adrian is sure, so the irony of having such a devoted quarter of the castle is not lost on him. 

“Do you favor any one room over the other?” you ask, leaning a tired head against his shoulder. 

“No, they’re all the same. Some more damaged than others, but…”

He took you to a different hallways than he had taken them. Far enough away that he cannot smell their scent lingering still in the corridors, the stench of his own blood on a ruined mattress alongside their own. 

Those are guestrooms he’ll never enter again, two blights in the castle he cannot bring himself to deal with. 

Adrian shakes the memories away, the thoughts. Before they ruin the evening. “This one will do,” he says, nodding his head to the right and ushering you into the nearest suite. 

It is nothing remarkable. A single, wide window with heavy velvet curtains is on the far wall, a large fourposter bed and canopy with its headboard against the wall to the left upon entry. A fireplace staring down the foot of the bed, and a door to a washroom to the left of the headboard. The whole room is done in shades of deep red, and for a moment, Adrian is reminded too strongly of blood to think of anything else. 

“That looks much more comfortable than a chaise,” you say, stepping happily into the room and brightening the whole place with your presence. Not blood then, the color of the drapes. Wine, maybe, a warm sunset. Berries in a dark forest thicket. There’s too much purple dye in the color composition of it all anyway. More maroon or burgundy than blood. 

Comforted by such a notion, a way of rationalizing the world he has not come up with in years since he stopped mixing paint together until he matched his subject’s hue perfectly, Adrian follows you into the room, closing the door behind him. Recalling an old spell that should still be in effect from his childhood, Adrian runs a finger along the elegantly carved mantlepiece of the fireplace and watches with satisfaction as a few stout pieces of wood cut to size clunk into the hearth, ready to be lit by some summoned flame.

You stare at the sudden appearance, wide eyed. “Do all the fireplaces do that? I thought you chopped all the wood yourself.”

A bit of amusement tugs at his lips. “The castle’s been enchanted to be a provider for centuries. My father couldn’t always be bothered to chop firewood himself, after all, not in my time or before when he was still touting the title of ‘King amongst Vampires’ for all its worth.” Adrian steps back a bit, muttering the ever familiar ' _flammis inferni_ ' beneath his breath and sending the logs alight. “I chopped the wood myself for something to do in the months alone. I found it good to do simple tasks, when I could. Depend upon my own skills instead of magic. It was something to occupy myself with nonetheless, and I amassed quite the stockpile.”

You’re leaning against one of the carved posters of the bed, hugging it almost, and looking… sad. “We should soak your shirt soon. Otherwise you’re going to have an ink smudge across your torso forever. The ink might have seeped through actually, now that I think about it.”

You study your own fingers where dark ink has dried between the grooves of your skin, marking your fingertips with signs of learning. Of work. 

However, it hadn’t yet occurred to Adrian that you’ll be seeing him shirtless once he takes the thing off, and suddenly the heat from the fire isn’t enough to warm his chill. This abrupt fear is not so much out of modesty - after all, he has seen _you_ completely bare before, something he has almost forgotten in the grand scheme of everything else that happened since. It’s that you’re going to be seeing _him_. More specifically, the scars that mar his body. You’ve not seen them before, not really, not fully. He isn’t sure what he’s afraid you’ll do when you see the ruined skin, if you’ll suddenly find him too repulsive to be near when confronted with the visceral reminder of what had happened the last time, the remains of what has been done to him. If you’ll ask him to explain it more - to show you what had happened, to show you the rest, more than what he’s ready for-

He didn’t even realize that you’ve led him to the washroom already, that you’ve had him sit at the edge of the large copper tub while you turn the faucet, dampen a nearby washcloth. 

“I’ll soak the shirt in cold, but I doubt you want icy water to clean up with,” you explain, running your fingers under the soft stream to test its temperature. 

You wait for Adrian to remove his shirt, but he hesitates. “You don’t have to… I can take care of it myself.” He clears his throat. 

“I mean, I can leave you to it if that’s what you really want,” you begin, not sounding very convinced. “But you took care of me once upon a time, it only seems fair for me to return the favor in some regard.”

Adrian scoffs at the notion of you owing him anything, let alone an act of care such as what you offer, but he can tell that you genuinely want to help. To do yet another kindness not required. 

And you’re bound to see the scars sooner or later…

With motions that seem surprisingly calculated, Adrian tugs the collar of his shirt over his head, bending low to shed the garment off and saving himself from making eye contact with you as you take him in for the first time. 

He’s expecting a gasp from you, or a cry, or… something. Anything. 

Instead, you squeeze out the cloth a little, push the sleeves of your blue dress up to your elbows, and get to work scrubbing the ink from his scarred flesh. 

“Could you sit up a little straighter for me?” you ask, voice even as you work at the splotches of ink with light, small circles. 

Wordlessly, Adrian complies, stretching his back up into something that feels less shameful. His hands rest on either side of him against the tub for balance, and he’s kept his eyes closed the entire time so as not to see the change in your expression as you behold him. That being said, the sensation of warmth on his skin is… almost comforting, in a way.

“You’re being so gentle,” he remarks after a few moments, genuine surprise in his tone. “I’m not going to break, you know.”

You pause your circles briefly, starting them again soon after with no more force than before. “I’m not going to be rough with you, even if you can take it. You don’t deserve that, and I’d die if I hurt you more than… well.”

Adrian sighs, somehow relieved to be addressing the obvious at last. The both of you very well cannot pretend that the scars don’t exist, after all. That their traumas never happened. 

“Do they still hurt?” you ask, softly. “It’s only been what, a month and a half? Two?”

“Sometimes,” he admits. “Though I don’t know if the pain is merely imagined. This one,” he runs his middle finger elegantly along his chest, “is much older. My father gave it to me right after my mother died.”

That does make you falter, and it's enough to make Adrian open his eyes and stare up at you. Your own are fixed on that particular scar, wild thoughts flickering unfettered across your face. “I thought… Shouldn’t you have healed from that by now? With advanced regeneration and all?”

“It almost killed me,” Adrian says in a dry manner, more tired than anything else. “I spent a year sleeping it off in an underground coffin, attached to tanks of old blood to speed up the process. Had the wound been less severe or the blood quite fresh, perhaps. Or even if I simply had more time. A full vampire would have had better luck than I, but there were more pressing matters to attend to than healing entirely.” 

“And the others, how-”

“A relic. A trap made of silver, blessed by a priest of some kind. Made to burn, to torment. To scar. Not to kill.”

For a long moment, you continue to stare at his torso, something heated rising to your face. Before Adrian can register what is happening, you’ve chucked the cloth against the side of the tub and pressed forward, your chest gently coming into contact with his damp front, your arms wrapping beneath his and around him fiercely. Your chin sits over his shoulder, the side of your head tilting to lean against his. For a long moment, neither of you move, neither of you say anything. 

Something catches in his throat, something stings at his eyes.

“I’ll give you my blood if it will help you heal these scars,” you say firmly. “Gladly.”

“I suppose they are rather an eyesore, aren’t they?”

“I don't care what they look like. You’ve already been through so much - you shouldn't have to stare at it all the time if you don’t want to.” 

Slowly, Adrian’s arms tentatively wrap around your back, pulling you closer to those physical reminders of all his pain, his suffering.

“I thought… I thought you might not like them. Looking at them, I mean. Looking… at me.” He fights some emotion crawling into his voice, though which emotion it is even he cannot rightly say. “They aren’t very… well…”

“I still think you’re beautiful,” you remind him, pulling away enough to bend your head and place a kiss on the center of his chest, well above the twice-angered skin. “You’re still smart, and kind, and...almost maddeningly graceful, and-”

It’s too much, Adrian thinks, halting your slew of compliments by placing his lips firmly over yours. _You_ are too much, too kind, too generous, and he is so far from deserving of it all that he might laugh were the situation not his own. Were _you_ not his own.

“-and your voice makes me weak, your laugh steals my breath and my senses-”

Another kiss. _Will you not be silenced? Will your endless barrage of mercy never cease?_

You moan something else he’s pretty sure is another compliment into his mouth, and with a sigh of resignation, Adrian releases your lips, though he still can’t bring himself to face the devotion he knows is shining in your eyes.

“You are so strong,” you finish, a breath apart, hands splayed over his chest in a way both painfully familiar and refreshingly new. “To have lived through everything, faced all the horrors trying to claim you. To emerge a lonely victor amongst such tragedy.” Tenderly, you place a kiss on his cheek. “Strong.”

Adrian snorts.

“You _are_.”

“My survival wasn’t strength,” he counters, a tightness welling up in his throat. “Mostly it was just a lot of instinctual fear. Fear of death.”

“If you get to call me brave I get to call you strong.”

“If I have any strength - it comes from you. Surely, you must know that.”

“Not _all_ of it-”

“Yes, all of it.” Adrian looks up at you finally, his glossy eyes meeting the confusion within yours. “Before you showed up I… living wasn’t…” he shakes his head. “Survival was more of a thing of maintenance. I genuinely don’t think I would have cared if someone came to stake me - I might have thought it a mercy after everything that happened. I don’t know if such a thing as fate exists, or even luck, but…” Adrian wraps your hands in his, finding them to be warm and steady. “I don’t know what would have become of me had you not arrived on my threshold, put up with my coldness and pain and this life I’ve been handed. If you hadn’t endured me.”

“I quite enjoy enduring you, if that’s what you want to call it,” you say ever so quietly, without missing a beat. “I’d endure you forever if you asked.” 

Adrian freezes again, struck with the sudden implication behind your words, the sudden weight to the situation. No longer just a series of pretty expressions, but… a promise?

Dare he say… a proposal?

No, certainly not. You couldn't possibly have meant such a thing so soon. Not to him. 

He’s in such a profound state of shock that he doesn’t notice you filling the bath with cold water, tossing his shirt along with the cloth inside. He doesn’t notice you leading him back to the bedroom, sit him against the foot of the bed. He stares into the fire, somewhat aware that you’re shedding your outer dress beside him, just out of his field of vision but not focusing on it. He wants you to stay forever, of course, but… he didn’t think that you’d really want the same. He didn’t even dare to entertain the notion with everything else going on.

But, suspending his own disbelief… of course that’s what he wants, what he’s always wanted. Someone to stay, and more specifically, to do so at least in part for him. His mother left to do her work and died for it, his father left to travel or to go on a world-ending rampage. His friends - his _true_ friends, chose each other and adventure over him and his coldness, and the others… well, they had wanted nothing to do with him, in the end. 

But here you are, running your hair through your fingers and smiling shyly. Wearing your slightly damp night shift threatening transparency. His own chest gleaming with water lit by the fire before him. Sharing a bedroom - actually sharing it, making the _choice_ to share it. A neutral territory. A common interest. 

You chose him. You chose him over safety. Over your own freedom. You’ve essentially imprisoned yourself here willingly, under the imminent threat of danger, away from a quaint house and a quiet life. You care not for vampiric lore or magical castles or secrets of the Belmont Hold, though you do not shy away from such knowledge when it is presented. You care not for blood and war and fighting, for betrayal in the night or errant spells seeking fatal destruction.

You, Adrian lets himself realize, lets himself _accept_ , stay for him. You care for him. _You choose him_. 

Alucard, son of Dracula, Prince - or perhaps King - amongst vampires. 

Adrian Tepes, half mortal, half human.

And now, as you pull sheets over his shoulders and nestle where he can kiss your forehead, where his arms fold over your body and your hands tuck between your chests, blanketed by twin heartbeats as if nothing could be more natural… names and titles and heritage matter not. 

He is yours. 

Wholly, entirely. 

Yours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And next, for what we've all been waiting for...


	30. No Small Success

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, this is the ~Spicy One~, you can stop asking me when it's gonna happen <3
> 
> (if you don't want to read some very vanilla, decently sugary spice, the first half is Plot Relevant Stuff. Head out when you start to see things ramp up, no worries)
> 
> I sincerely hope you enjoy this 11,680 word monstrosity!

You are held much too tightly against Adrian to be able to admire him properly. The watery morning light peers through the plum-hued canopy around your shared bed, taking the place of the stars who would so love to act as voyeurs to this moment of intimacy, of safety. 

Adrian clings to you in sleep as if he were a drowning man reaching for air. It is a desperate grasp he has around you, pinning you in place against him at several locations, all of which feel perfectly natural. It’s as if you were made to fit together, the pair of you. As if the stars really had known all along what they were doing. Such a tight, insistent tenderness makes being kidnapped worth it. Adrian himself is worth it. 

Perhaps, in some strange way, you are even thankful it happened. Thankful that one farm boy was an idiot. Thankful that you made it here, you survived. You got to live to see this, your lover’s mess of blonde hair falling over a supple chest, a sinuous arm. His nose buried into the crook of your neck, guided perhaps by some instinct he has no intention of acting upon. 

You’d meant it when you said you would give him your blood. Not _all_ of it, obviously, but as much as he needed, if he asked. His scars, laid bare for you as the covers only come up to his waist, do indeed look painful, even if he insists that they aren’t. They make him no less devastatingly handsome, of course, but they shouldn’t need to be there as a constant reminder of what happened to him, not when he can’t seem to forget as it is. 

You press a little closer to him, feeling protective, in some way. You can’t save him in a fight, you know that, though being resigned to such a fact is abhorrent to you, but still… perhaps it is truthfully his emotions you are trying to guard, his poor heart softly beating, tentatively daring to love again. Daring, perhaps, to dream? 

He’d been so quiet when you said you’d be his forever, when you _meant_ it. Quiet like he had been after you’d burned the corpses, though your shared closeness left no doubt in your mind that he feels the same way about you, even if he isn’t quite able to verbalize such sentiment yet. Even if he’s never able to.

You’ve just come to accept that sometimes he needs time to process things.

Adrian shifts beside you, subtly, inhaling sharply and tiredly and stiffening slightly like a cat arching its back, and you cannot help but wonder which version of him you’ll be waking up with- if it will be the sad creature you’ve grown accustomed to before, the haunted man with pain in his eyes and words sealed behind tight lips, or the elusive figure you’d seen on the pathway under the stars, the one radiating devotion and desperate longing. If it will be someone else entirely.

As his eyes start to flutter open, as his hands slide in their grip on your back, you know that whichever man you face beside you will be met with nothing but love, with patience. With acceptance regardless.

“Good morning,” you say, voice soft and dark with sleep. You fear that speaking too loudly will break the spell, the quiet magic unfolding before your eyes like sunlight in a clearing. 

Adrian pulls back a little, untangling himself and his hair from your neck, and blearily looks up, not quite all there yet and blinking at you as if he isn’t sure you fully exist. 

“Surprisingly,” he agrees, gradually coming into himself. He seems to realize how tightly he’d been clinging to you all night, and while you expect him to release you, embarrassed, he seems to take a moment to reconsider doing so himself. He loosens his hold on you a little, but to your delight, he does not go far.

You tentatively brush his hair out of his face, and Adrian’s hand reaches up to hold your own in place there, his eyes closing once more. “You know, I can’t remember ever having slept so soundly,” he whispers, his own voice rougher than usual but with less of an edge, less barely-concealed contempt at the world around him. Gentler, sweeter.

“Would you say that you prefer me to sleeping in a coffin?” you laugh, watching a smile twist onto his lips. He brings your hand to them, the softest kiss punctuated by a slight laugh. 

“Yes, without a doubt.”

“You didn’t have dreams either,” you say, lightly squeezing his hand. “None that I could tell.”

Adrian’s eyes open, look up at you in wonder. “I… no, I didn’t.”

Outside, a lone bird caws in the early winter morning, the only sound for a long moment. 

“Perhaps, if you’re so willing, we should… do this again,” he suggests so very quietly, not quite meeting your gaze as if he expects you to reject such an offer.

As if you could. 

“I quite agree,” you reply, the easiest decision you’ve ever had to make.

Adrian’s shoulders relax, and he gives a small sigh. “I know we have things to do, mirrors to practice on and all that, but… could we just stay like this a little longer? Please?”

You stare at him awhile, at his eyelashes lit up like flames with the ambient sunlight coming in and shining through them, the same sunlight which casts a slight golden crown along the outline of his head.

“What?” he asks, softly, in a voice you imagine he’d use if you were still asleep, as if he was afraid to wake you. Rouse you from a pleasant dream. 

You sit up a little, taking the covers with you and exposing more of Adrian to the cold morning air which seems not to affect him. He watches you with mild confusion as you gesture for him to get up as well, only to guide him back down onto your chest, his cheek pressed just below your collarbone, his body falling languidly and sleepily between your legs. His back, taught and muscled, peeks above the covers which you aren’t ready to bring up again as his body settles into you, his arms tensely holding most of his weight off your frame as his elbows dig into the mattress. 

“Lean on me,” you say just as softly, bringing your hands to his upper back, to his neck, cradling his skull. 

“I don’t want to crush you-”

You plant a kiss on the top of his head, soothing him down. Gradually, his weight falls on top of you as his arms dip into the mattress and scoop up between your shoulder blades, holding you back just as tightly, all the while careful to notice any signs on your part that his body is too heavy for you. 

It is not. 

The sunlight coming through the curtains flutters around as clouds pass over the bright blue sky. You don’t know what hour it is, exactly, just that you’ve rested awhile. That Adrian has probably slept more in this one night than he has any other over the duration of your stay here. This morning moment is so still, so quiet. You can hear your own heart beating, you can feel Adrian’s on occasion through your thin nightshift. His eyes are half open, resting unfocused on the soft white pillows and sheets around you, wrapping the both of you up.

You sense he wants to say something, wants to talk, but that he isn’t sure what to say. How to respond, how to start. Perhaps even what to talk about. 

“You know you’re stunning, right?” you whisper, hand running lightly down his back, the only place on him where you don't see scars. He must have been lying on it, then, when it happened, and you make a note never to force him backwards. Never to pin him down.

He makes a muffled snort as his response, stirring a little. “Am I? In what way?”

“Where do I even begin,” you chide, relishing in the way his voice sounds through your own chest. It is deeper, in the morning. Not harsher, but rougher, somehow. “Years ago, my village was visited by these traveling merchants - though in hindsight they might have been thieves. They were hauling big wagons with heavy loads supposed to be delivered to a northern king or something, old ruins from bygone eras. A few village children and I asked to see what was under the tarps, and we were met with these marble statues, prettier than anything I’d ever seen before, and all covered in carved shrouds and rippling muscles. Old statues, old enough that we must have forgotten how to make them like that now.”

“Oh?”

“They said that some great masters of a past age had carved them out when I asked. That they were the epitome of men, of strength and what have you. It was the first time I saw a man naked, albeit a marble man with far more facial hair than seemed necessary.”

Adrian doesn’t move. “Are you suggesting I compare?”

“I’m saying that you put them to shame.”

You can feel his blush below your collarbone, and hold him a little tighter, laughter bubbling up in your throat and escaping through your nose. 

“You haven’t… even seen all of me,” he says weakly, burying his face into you. 

He seems so shy, you think. You suppose if the tables were turned and he was comparing you to the statues of barely-clad women you’d also caught a glimpse of in the wagon loads, you would be equally embarrassed.

You give a hum which serves the same purpose as a shrug, as an indicator of vague nonchalance. 

“You’re surprisingly comfortable,” he remarks a bit later, finally relaxing against you entirely. “You’re warm.”

“The fire’s still going,” you explain. “But I am glad you find me comfortable.”

He sighs, waking up a little, pulling reluctantly away. “I wish we’d done this sooner, to be honest.”

“You weren’t ready yet,” you shrug, lazily untangling yourself from him. “And we can do it again tonight, if you want. We can do it every night until we can’t, or if you’d rather not-”

Adrian shakes his head. “I’d like that.”

For a moment, the both of you pause, feeling light. Smiling, faintly. The smile of a dream.

“Let’s go get some breakfast,” you say, kicking out of the covers and reaching for your discarded dress. 

“I don’t have a shirt,” Adrian realizes, getting up out of the bed himself and stepping into the washroom, emerging with wet hands and the sound of the bath being drained. “That one is soaked and my spare isn’t clean.” 

“I’m not complaining,” you say beneath your breath. From the way his head snaps up, you know he’s heard it. “Don’t you have other shirts?” Blue fabric falls over your head, and you emerge a moment later, fidgeting into your dress as Adrian looks away. 

“I did, at one point.”

“What happened to them?”

He’s quiet for a moment. “Nothing. It’s more what happened in the room that they were stored in that presents a problem.”

It takes you a moment to catch his meaning, but a sinking coldness settles over you as you bend down to put on your stockings, find your boots. 

If he’d been betrayed in a bed… and the betrayers had found him…

_Fuck, had they really taken his own bedroom from him too?_

“I’ll go grab the shirts, if you want,” you volunteer, standing up. “Point me in the right direction. I’ll not be a minute.”

Adrian stares at you wide eyed. “What?”

“Tell me the room your shirts are in so that you don’t have to go in yourself.”

“I don’t want you to see it all. It’s still… I never cleaned any of it up, I couldn’t. I ran out carrying only a few things and haven’t had the stomach to go back in since.”

You throw the bedsheets into their proper order, Adrian reaching to help you a moment later. 

“Well, the alternative is you going shirtless all day, and to be honest, I don’t think I’ll be able to focus on working the mirror if you do that.”

His mouth opens, closes. His arms cross. He shakes his head.

“Very well, then.”

His eyes fix on the point where the curtains meet the floor as if nothing else in the world has any permanence. You walk over, place a kiss on his shoulder. “Let’s go. I’m hungry.”

Adrian sighs.

Only a few moments later, you’re led down a few adjacent halls until you find one which is darker than the rest, two doors near the end left open. 

“It’s the one on the left,” he says tightly. 

You realize his hands are holding your arm, keeping you in place. 

“You… you shouldn’t. It’s a bad idea. I’ll find a bedsheet or something, or my coat.”

“I’ll just be a minute,” you promise, squeezing his hands until he lets you go, lets you begin the walk down the hall, the sounds of your boots echoing off the stone floor. 

The ground at the end of the corridor is the first thing you notice which gives the distinct impression of something being wrong. The carpet is kicked out of place, deep stains of what must be blood smeared around. As instructed, you turn to the door open at the left of the hall, feeling Adrian’s eyes on you the entire time. You peer in, a bit of sunlight playing through half-drawn drapes and falling over a bed which looks admittedly pretty bad. 

Not letting yourself hesitate, you straighten your back, open the door wider and try not to wince at the creak it makes. 

You find ‘mangled’ to be an apt word for the scene before you, for the immense tragedy which played out unbeknownst to you some months ago. Some morbid curiosity has your feet stepping closer despite the voice in your head telling you to just get the clothes and be done with it, the pounding of your heart blotting out all reason. 

The mattress is stripped of pillows, of covers, of anything denoting a bed aside from a fitted sheet trapped by the carnage. The wooden frame is warped and splintered, silver criss-crossing threads twisting and carving into the whole thing like a quilt. There’s thick, dried blood everywhere, in two pools around the lower middle of the bed, in strips lining the silver. You have no idea how Adrian had freed himself, if he’d lain there for hours before mustering the strength to pry himself out. There is no doubt that this thing is what pinned him down, the ample blood is more than enough evidence.

The thought of him fucked and then left to die…

It has more of an effect on you than you were expecting. For a long moment, you fear you’ll be sick all over the dismal scene, adding to the grime, the misery. The stench. 

You take a deep breath, regret it a bit, and then stride to the tall wardrobe to your right, flinging open the doors and blowing away the dust as you blindly fish around for various shirts and pants and whatnot. There’s a pair of boots that find their way into the mix, and some gloves. You’re out of there a few moments later, deliberately closing the bedroom door with an air of finality. 

Adrian is staring at you worriedly from the end of the hall, evidently caught in the middle of pacing around with his hands fisting his hair, and you don’t need a mirror to tell you that your face has likely paled considerably. 

All you can think to do is hand him the clothes when you reach him after walking down a hallway which seemed it would never end, apologize for the mess of it all. It’s no wonder he’s so skittish at the thought of sleeping with you. You notice with a pang of unplaceable guilt that the scars on his torso match the bindings on the bed exactly. 

For his part, Adrian’s eyes don’t meet yours, and after sifting through the pile of things you’ve shoved at him, he picks a white linen shirt in line with what he normally wears, though considerably looser fitting. Slightly transparent as well, so those scars do not escape you. 

“Put them in the room we share,” you say, smiling away the wetness to your eyes. “I’ll start breakfast.”

You make it a few paces ahead before you sense Adrian’s absence, and in less than a moment, he’s back, a red trail following him as he reappears by your side. 

“Let’s not be alone,” he explains softly. “We’ll make breakfast together.”

You nod, the both of you making your way to the stairs while you fight the image of Adrian tied town from your head. It seems almost worse than the thought of him sprawled out lifelessly on the ballroom floor, and you hadn’t even really seen it.

“Should we address it?” he swallows. 

You shake your head. 

“Are you certain?”

“I’m not making you relive that,” you say shakily. “I’m… it’s good they’re dead.”

You can’t believe anyone would meet Adrian, be welcomed into his home, treated in any manner comparable to the way he’s treated you, and still decide to _crucify_ him like that. 

To have lived through something so horrifying and still be able to love you, to be tender with you, to try and work through it all…

You didn’t think your heart could break any more for Adrian than it already does, and as if sensing such a thing, he pauses on the landing of the grand staircase to pull you consolingly into his chest. Your arms wrap around each other, and for a moment you just stay like that, silent tears running down your face as you fist at the fabric in his shirt, his hand smooths down your hair.

“This isn’t right,” you choke, laughing despite yourself. “You shouldn’t be the one… the one comforting me here.”

“I’ve had time to come to terms with it.” His voice is so smooth, so even. 

“I hate that. I hate that you had to go through that, _had_ to come to terms with it.” You pull away, not caring that your face is most certainly a blotchy mess. “I can’t believe anyone would do that to you.”

His brows furrow, slightly, but he doesn’t make to speak. To move. 

“I knew it was bad,” you continue. “I believed you, of course, but seeing it…”

“You shouldn’t have gone in. I shouldn’t have let you.”

You shake your head vigorously, forcing down more tears. Forcing some composure into yourself. “No, I - I know now,” you say, smoothing down his shirtfront where it had gotten all wrinkled. 

Adrian says nothing for a moment, his head hung low, some pain crossing his face. He still hasn’t let go of your waist, and you lean your forehead to his, shutting your own eyes and just taking a moment to ground yourself. For the both of you to ground yourselves. 

You listen to his breathing, faint enough that had he not been a dhampir you would have been concerned. Your fingers are still tangled in the fabric of his shirt. 

“Shall we get on with the morning, then?” he asks gently a while later, wiping the last of your tears from your face before they have the chance to dry into rough salty streaks. You nod, afraid of speaking again lest more tears follow. Adrian’s arm slips down to your waist, and the both of you stay close for the rest of the morning, holding hands in the kitchen or brushing knees at the table. You seem to do it out of a sense of reassuring yourself that Adrian is here, that he’s whole and well and not still bound in that infernal thing upstairs. You wonder if you should burn it down, the whole room. You’d do it even without Adrian’s permission. Its very existence seems to be an offense to the rest of the castle, one you’d be glad to watch perish into ash. Then again, after pressing him about the frequent number of broken walls in the place only to learn that the damage had been done as Adrian’s body was thrown through them, if you want to cleanse the castle of every wound against him, that is very likely going to be a battle which you lose.

That doesn’t stop you from glaring at the cursed hallway as you pass it on your way back to Dracula’s study after grabbing your notes and books following breakfast. He looks pointedly ahead, carrying a few sacks of food to toss through the mirror as a test, once again quiet. You too are rather silent, going over your own thoughts in regards to the mirror and to the castle. To him. The enormity of what is to befall you at any given moment.

_One thing at a time._

Midday sunlight glints off the mirror shards to your right as you enter, the glass jostling a bit as if it is of its own sentience. 

“I can’t go near it if you want to be the one to call it into your command,” Adrian explains, stepping to the back corner of the room behind a chair, giving the mirror a wide berth. 

You stare at the thing for a moment, sizing it up as though it is not but a stubborn sheep refusing to get into its pen at night. The key Adrian drew out for you makes the process easier, as does the very faint, barely visible scratched ruins etched into the backs of the mirror pieces which are able to be seen from a certain angle. You merely need to find the right pieces and inscribe on them the corresponding ruins in the correct order. 

Still, you wouldn’t call the work easy. Your finger goes piece by agonizing piece, fingernail occasionally scratching the glass in a manner which does not help your nerves. Adrian’s careful and attentive watch doesn’t help either, and you feel like it takes years to write out all the simple, stiff letters which amount to a rough translation of what Adrian has said is “Show me and deliver me. Guide me across the unknown. Fold time and distance like a cloth to which I can pass through with the ease of a needle.”

He’d explained that it was a very, very rough translation when explaining it to you, and based on how few letters you actually carve into the mirror, you get the sense that he wasn’t wrong. 

Still, the intent that you write the words with seems to matter as much as the words themselves, and so you keep your mind trained on that translation, focusing and writing and slipping into such a focused, determined haze that you are really quite startled when the whole thing leaps up around you, hovering like bits of ice frozen mid fall. 

“Don’t look away,” Adrian says, his voice filled with quiet surprise. “Will it to come together.”

You’d admonish him for such vague advice were it not for the instinctual desire to merely stretch out your hands and slowly bring them together before you as if you were about to clap. The shards spin together at varying paces until they click and snap into place, the ruins and the gaps filling in with a pure, blue-white light, leaving you to stare at your own incredulous face as Adrian comes into view behind you, golden eyes admiring the mirror, soft lips smiling ever so slightly. 

“Well, you’ve managed that rather nicely.”

You nod, but quickly realize that the voice in your head which narrates your own inner thoughts is no longer the only presence there. The other thing is not exactly a voice, it is something more formless, but it is undeniably there, sitting like mist on a cold spring morning, swirling and waiting for a wind or a thought to blow it into the right direction. 

“Can you remember the millhouse? Try to picture it clearly.”

His voice sounds a little distant, as if there isn’t really enough room for it to exist in your head with the mist and thoughts of your own jumbling together.

_Stone walls encased by strong wooden beams. A stream trickling outside, a dormant mill. Wooden floors that will creak when stepped on, thick glass windows to keep out the cold._

Your reflection fades, and the first change you notice is birdsong, warbling into consciousness as the scene shifts into the living room of that picturesque little millhouse waiting for someone to come breathe life into it. Waiting, you suppose, for you. 

His hand on your waist startles you into looking away for a moment, and the mirror cracks into fragments once again as you turn to face him. You frown at the pieces as they float despondent to the ground, the mist easing from your mind, releasing you back into the more tangible world. His hand finds your jaw next, apparently without a care for the mirror, and gently urges you to look up at him, his eyes searching your face with well-hidden concern. “Do you feel alright? It wasn’t too taxing on you?”

You blink, once, pushing away the last of the whispering mist. “It’s a little strange,” you admit as your hand reaches and rests atop his, “but yes, I’m fine. I’m alright.”  
A bit of relief sags in his shoulders, and his touch slips to join his other hand resting around your waist. “You did just manage to effectively open a portal, you know. That’s pretty advanced magic.”

“I had a good teacher,” you joke, delighting in the way he scoffs away your praise.  
The both of you stare at the dormant mirror, all the pieces now out of order. “I suppose I should try it again?” You remember the way Adrian taught you spells, how he had you practice them methodically until they became as much of an instinct as breathing. It’s been so long since you’ve done a spell, you really should go over them again soon. 

Adrian nods. "Don’t exhaust yourself, but should our plan work, it would be best to have this process streamlined. Spirit yourself away at a moment’s notice.”

“And then at some point we’ll toss the supplies in?”

“I’ll walk them to the pantry. You’ll be tasked with holding the portal open long enough to get me in and out.”

You feel your face pale, your lips set into a firm line. 

Adrian fondly tucks some hair behind your ear, and steps away, giving you space. The mirror shards have arranged themselves in a different order now, so while the key is still useful to you, it does take some time to locate the pieces again. 

Your finger traces the runes, your mind translating and repeating that phrase of intent, and a little over an hour later, the semi-sentient object seems to be able to anticipate your actions, floating the right pieces up preemptively for you to make use of. 

Adrian assures you that it is a very good sign. 

This does not, however, assuage your fear as he starts to gather up the food supplies and sewing materials and prepares to step through your portal. 

“It will be dark outside in a matter of minutes,” he says with a gentle firmness. “You’ve called the mirror up successfully a dozen times now, you can do it once more.”

You can’t help the gnawing feeling in your stomach that something will go quite wrong, but Adrian adjusts a sack of oats over his broad shoulder, looking at you and the mirror expectantly. 

A few moments later, and with a heavy sigh, you straighten your back, outstretch your palm, and before you know it, that whispering is back inside your head, that snow covered meadow staring back at you cheerfully through a cabin window. You’ve spawned the portal in the middle of the living room, and hold it open patiently, eyes never leaving the scene. 

“I’ll be quick,” he says, close to your ear. 

A few steps forward, and his boots thud on soft wood as opposed to hard stone. Fading sunlight hits him from a new direction, though you cast a shadow yourself on the cottage floor as the sun on your end begins to set behind you. You’re lost in the strange sensation of the mirror, of watching Adrian’s long legs walk in a straight line to the kitchen, his back bend to deposit items. You’re so lost, so content to watch the scene unfold despite wanting him to be as fast as possible and return to you, that when something thuds sharply against the window behind you, your body jolts around to face the source just as a little yelp of surprise leaves your lips - and the mirror behind you splinters to pieces.

Your heart is in your throat, pounding away, harkening old fears of night creatures back into the forefront of your panicked thoughts. 

With a single, shaking breath, you walk to the study window, each moment passing by like a desperate, thankless eternity. Bolstering your morale, a feat easier than it has been in past instances of near-panic, you make it to the panes, peer out, brace yourself for a night creature, or a vampire, or a forgemaster seeking revenge.  
Instead you find a rather hardened, scrappy-looking raven perched dazedly on the exterior ledge, its feathers in a state of disarray and a slightly unsettling tilt to its neck, but otherwise seemingly intact. You stare at it for a moment, watching the large bird shake itself off.

As if it is suddenly aware of being watched, the raven’s head snaps to stare at you through profile, its eyes a strange blue which makes you wonder if the creature is blind. It is perfectly still for a moment, before puffing up its chest and emitting a loud, throaty caw at you which sounds more like an iron chain crushed beneath a carriage wheel before flying off in remarkably ungraceful flaps of molting wings. 

_What an ugly bird_ , you think, watching it fade into the forest, slowly coming down from your shock. You turn to ask Adrian what he makes of the occurrence, only to find the study empty. 

With mounting horror, your eyes jump to the disassembled mirror, and a moment later as the realization that you’ve stranded him on the other side of _Europe_ hits you, your limbs scramble to action, rushing over and startling the shards into motion. 

“Show me and deliver me,” you say over your racing heart, aligning into the first five pieces without so much as glancing at your guide sheet. "Guide me across the unknown. Fold time and distance-” the outer corners- “like a cloth to which I can pass through,” the edges align next, “with the ease of a needle.”

On the last word, you tap the center pieces into place, and are left with your own reflection, more determination in your eyes than you’ve ever seen there before. It’s enough to surprise you for a moment, the transformation of the girl you once were into the woman you have become. The mirror whispers something encouraging at you.

You blink it away, thinking once more of the millhouse, hopefully for the last time today, as your hand pressed against the glass has begun to shake. The sky has grown darker, the sun an orange glimmer through the trees obscuring the horizon. A second more, and you are once again shown the living room. You catch Adrian pacing, one hand fisting his hair. He stops, his head whipping to stare at you. For a second, neither of you move.

And then the next thing you know is a flash of red hurtling at you faster than you can even register, and the press of a body against yours, an arm around your waist, being spun around quickly, held close by tense muscles.

“What happened - what’s-”

“It’s fine!” you gasp out, head spinning. “Adrian, it was a bird - a bird hit the window and startled me- there’s nothing here, it’s alright!”

You spit the words out as fast as you can, watching Adrian’s eyes darting to all the corners of the study, to the window. He heads towards it, keeping you close behind him. 

He stares at the outside world with a sharpness which could cut steel for what feels like an eternity, scanning the horizon quickly and astutely while you cling to his arm insistently. “It was just a raven.”

He blinks, and you watch him forcibly relax his shoulders, take a breath. 

It seems to be an agonizing process. You can feel his pulse racing from your grip on his arm, and fearing that you are holding too tightly, you release him. Those eyes turn their scrutiny on you once again, and there is such a blind panic in them that you find it hard to recognize your lover for a moment. 

Cautiously, you step forward. “I’m sorry for letting the portal slip, please… please don’t be angry with me-”

Once again he’s moved more quickly than you anticipated, and once more, you find your bodies pressed together. 

Only, this time, he’s holding you closely, tightly, and seems to have no intention of letting you go anytime soon.

“I’m not angry,” he manages, panting slightly, relief evident in his voice, muffled as it is against your shoulder. “I’m certainly not, it’s just…”

His hands fist desperately at the fabric around your waist, as if being surrounded by his arms is not contact enough. 

“I’m sorry, I scared you-”

“No, no - don’t apologize, it was unintentional.” He breathes deeply, you feel his ribs contract and expand beneath your own arms. “My reaction is not your fault, though, I think I know now what it is I fear most in this world.”

“Being stuck alone in a cottage somewhere?”

He shakes his head. “If there had been a real danger and I was unable to reach you-” he cuts himself off with something strangled you can’t quite define, something which almost sounds like it could be your name. “If something had happened, if that portal never opened again… If I _lost_ you… I honestly don’t know what I would do with myself.”

Needless to say, you’ve never felt more guilty in your entire life. “Adrian,” you whisper against his hair in a way you hope is soothing, not really sure how to respond to such a statement other than with physical comfort, with assurances that you are still here.

“The things, the people - _everything_ I’ve ever loved has a habit of being taken from me in one way or another,” he says with a swallow and an edge to his voice as he draws back, grips your biceps. “I can’t lose you too. I can’t waste this precious, brief time we have left.” He looks up at you, red-rimmed eyes pleading. “Do not let me waste it.”

Your brow furrows, your hand tentatively reaches to cup his face. “What… what are you saying?”

His lips part a bit, then close. His face twists, his throat works at words which evidently will not come. 

And then, in the absence of a declaration, a profession, an explanation, his eyes fall somewhere lower on your body as his hand gently but intentionally and deliberately runs up your thigh in a manner which one might use to check for weapons hidden in a garter. 

His eyes flicker back up to you as his hand nears your torso, stopping just over your hip bone, his gaze heated and uncertain, pleading yet determined.

“I want you,” he says, simply, dryly. “Before it is too late. Before I waste the opportunity with my fears and coldness. Before…”

You place a finger over his lower lip, tracing its softness, halting his speech. It’s a silent plea for a moment to think, to process what he’s just said. The words have shifted slightly from what they meant on the breezeway when he’d first uttered them, when he’d been asking you to stay. Now, they mean something else, something which sends a different fluttering to your stomach, something lower, warmer. 

You want to ask him if he’s sure, if he’s absolutely certain that he wants to do this now, that he isn’t still reeling with the knowledge that you didn’t strand him somewhere else to face your own demise and that is what is influencing this decision. 

But the way he’s looking at you says it all. _If not now, then perhaps never. Please, before my mind changes on me._

So, before fear can encroach upon this respite of peace and desire, you step forward, replacing your finger against his lips with your own mouth, the heat in your stomach rolling as he moans into you, a furnace igniting between roaming, grasping hands. One of your legs comes up out of instinct to wrap against his torso, and before you can so much as shift your weight, Adrian’s hands grip beneath your rear and pull you off the ground, his mouth never stopping in its dance with your own. 

You become aware that you’re floating, that Adrian is carrying the both of you somewhere better, somewhere you can actually continue.

He must mean to go through with it all, then.

The rate of his kisses slows as he navigates through halls blurring by, and you take a moment to think amidst the swell of your own emotions, your own joy. You’ve been admiring him for at least a month at this point, quelling quiet fantasies about this very moment. There is no doubt in your mind that you desire him as much as he does you, and yet… there is something nagging at the back of your head as you enter the guestroom you shared the night before and Adrian sits you down at the edge of the mattress.

“What?” he asks, stilling against you and sensing your trepidation. “Is this… is this alright?” 

You nod, quickly, your hands over his. “Yes, but…” How to phrase it?

Adrian waits, patiently, attentively. 

“I’m just… what if…” you look down, bracing yourself. “We don’t have a method of contraception right now, do we? What happens if I end up-”

“You won’t,” he says a little tensely, drawing back and looking away himself. He sits on the edge of the bed rather gingerly, something just remembered weighing on him suddenly. “I... there's an old tonic recipe that prevents that sort of thing listed in the medical laboratory. I wasn't sure if _this_ scenario would ever come to pass, but... I've taken it as a precaution." His fingers fiddle with the sheets beside him. "Physiologically speaking, as a dhampir, I'm not even sure I'm capable of such a thing. I've never really wanted children, though. Never thought I'd be well suited to the task.”

A sigh of relief escapes your lips more fervently than you were expecting, and he looks to you appraisingly, trying to judge your reaction for himself. 

You shift closer to him, place a kiss on his jaw, feel him relax against you a bit.

There’s still a bit of worry in his voice. “You’re alright with that?”

You kiss him again, lower this time, on the side of his throat. “Yes,” you say. “With everything going on right now, that’s… rather a relief, isn’t it? I should think a child would only be another worry to add to your conscience.”

“Well, yes, but… you aren’t disappointed? I'm not ruining your plans for a happy and fulfilling future?”

You cannot help but snort a little, pulling away enough to be able to look him squarely in the face. “Any happy and fulfilling future of mine simply includes you, my love,” you whisper softly. “I don’t know or particularly care what the rest looks like. I just want you to be there.”

With the tiniest, incredulous shake of his head and a look which suggests that you’ve cleared up yet another moral struggle for him, he guides you back against the pillows so incredibly gently, one hand cradling your skull as the other comes to rest around your waist, fingers pressing experimentally against your skin. 

“You can touch me,” you say, your own fingers pulling at the lacing of your overdress. “If you want to. I’ll go at your pace, I’ll do what you ask of me.”

He smiles a little, and then as if he is stalling for time, or perhaps just thinking practically, he reaches for the lacings of his boots, kicking the garments off quickly before joining you fully on the bed. You bend your knees, bringing your feet closer to your hands with the intention of undoing your own boots, but surprisingly, Adrian beats you to it. 

Watching you carefully, hungrily, even, he reaches for the hem of your blue dress, pushing it higher and higher up your legs, draping the fabric over your knees for now. Nimble fingers tug at your laces, then at the leather molded to the exact shape of your feet over the last month or so. Everything is gentle, methodical, and when Adrian pushes your hem a little higher to get the top of your right stocking under his grasp, you cannot help the little flutter of excitement and nerves blossoming in your chest, the eagerness and anticipation mixed with something a little more worried. 

The stocking comes over your knee now, and Adrian’s lips kiss the soft, bared skin exactly once while his fingers slide the garment down and off. He repeats the process on the other side, light touches and lingering kisses making you feel like you’re floating once more. 

“Tell me,” he urges, sitting forward a bit once your boots and stockings are neatly discarded on the floor. “Tell me what feels good.”

“Everything,” you gasp as he draws near, staring directly into your eyes. “Adrian, everything.”

“I...I admittedly don’t know what I’m doing.”

“What did you do the last time this happened for you?” You both grimace. “I mean, before…”

“I know.” Adrian looks away again, his body sort of hovering over yours, his hands digging into the mattress on either side of your waist. “I… I didn’t do much of anything. I just let it happen. The focus was entirely on my… pleasure.” He glances back at you. “I don’t want to do it like that again.”

Tilting your head, you sit up a little, letting your eyes roam over him. It seems as though you’re both in the same place, the same inexperience tempering your apparent desires. You reach for his hair, yet again, but find your hand nesting higher, your fingers drawing along his scalp. The effect of the action is immediately apparent, as Adrian’s eyes shut demurely and a shudder passes through his body.  
Encouraged, your other hand plays with the fabric of his spare shirt, the linen hiding very little, especially as the last bit of sunlight streams through the window and backlights him. This morning, the light had merely trickled in, bounced off other objects, other castle walls. Now, with the west-facing window, the sun comes in harsh orange beams, turning his blond hair coppery at the ends. 

His hand rests on top of yours playing with his shirt, guides it lower, pulls the fabric from where it had been tucked neatly into his trousers. Watching him carefully, eyes flitting back and forth, you reach up, your bare hand splaying across his smooth, taut skin, feeling the ridges and warpings of his scars, the pain he’s endured. 

“Is this okay? Can I touch you like this?”

He nods, solemnly. “Were you anyone else, I don’t think I’d be able to stomach it.”

“Is this difficult, even so?”

Again, he nods. There is a war within him, you realize, watching him fight to gain control, or perhaps, to remain in it. His lips twitch with the effort of it, his brow furrows. 

You pause for a moment, considering what to do. You retract your hand, bring both to cup his cheeks, plant another kiss on his jaw. “Is it easier if you focus on me?”

“I don’t know,” he admits forlornly. “Maybe.”

“Let’s try then.”

You sit on your legs tucked beneath you, reach for the lacings in your dress down the front. You look at Adrian through your lashes as the blue outer dress loosens and reveals more of your white shift, though it is a rather slow and agonizing process. His eyes fixate on that widening channel of exposed underdress, and tentatively, his fingers extend their aid, untangling the cords and slipping the dress off your shoulders. The shift slides with it, leaving your bared skin for him to see. He brushes your hair back, bends forward, and kisses the swell of your shoulder as well, his hands now roaming freely at your waist where the dress is beginning to pool. You tilt your head back, arching your spine slightly. You’re aware that your chest is being pushed forward, that Adrian has to see it too. 

He cups the small of your back with one hand and tugs the dress around your hips with the other, his nose tracing the lines of your throat temptingly, his lips teasing kisses which rarely come, but which are soft and meaningful when they do. Your knees straighten a bit, working to get the dress fully off and away. It too makes it to the floor, albeit with less ceremony than the boots, and with only the shift to act as a barrier, every motion you can feel is intensified. You feel his fingers playing their melody along your individual ribs, the pinch at the center of your waist. They travel higher, stopping just beneath your breasts, shy once again. 

With a smile, you guide him over their peaks, relishing in his exhale as you explore the new territory together. 

“That feels good,” you tease, doing what is asked of you playfully. 

Emboldened by your encouragement and with a hesitantly given smile of his own, Adrian continues to touch, to explore. You scratch at his scalp, reach for the muscles in his back as they work his arms, roam around you. 

There is a growing sensation between your legs, a growing awareness. A tightness, perhaps, but it fluctuates, ebbs like a tide, appearing like flames over hot embers gasping for air with which to seek life. 

With an insistence you hope doesn’t come across as roughness, you pull his head back, earning a surprised, heated look from your love as he stares up at you, mouth slightly agape. Unable to wait any longer for fear that your burgeoning desire will crackle out if you are given time to second guess yourself, you seal your lips over his with a hunger you no longer wish to restrain. You open yourself wide, practically begging him to enter. You’re aware that he presses his body against yours as his tongue bids your request, partners with you for this dance of muscle and tissue and bone. The sharp ends of his fangs nip at you occasionally, catching on your bottom lip almost playfully, almost as if they have a mind of their own. Arian is a slow kisser, but he has moments of speed, of heat. Moments where the hunger he is usually so adept at controlling leeches out of his skin and drives him out of his mind. Uncages itself. 

You want to see him unaged. Unfettered. Unbeholden to the manacles of the past, the tortures of that waking nightmare. With more ferocity than you’ve ever desired anything, you want him to forget, to become so lost in the feeling of you that he has no room for doubts, for remembering what had been done to him. You want him to feel like he’s flying, soaring, leaving the ground never to return. 

And so, deliberately, never breaking the kiss, you place a hand on his upper thigh, kneading the flesh as you work your way up. Adrian’s grip on you tightens and falters as you dare to make a pass at his member, hardly more than a soft touch over fabric, but carefully intentional nonetheless. You give him ample time to process, to think, to deny your touch. But when he doesn’t, when he continues to hold your chest against his and kiss you so very deeply, you move again, resting your hand there and silently asking him to use you to stoke his own desire, his own flame. Testing, he shifts a little, rolls his hips forward while your hand remains stationary.

You do not miss the sound made at the back of his throat, even within the kiss itself. Nor do you miss the effect such a mewl has on your own arousal. Adrian does not give off an air of being particularly vocal in moments of intimacy, but that doesn’t mean that you cannot elicit some more such sounds from him, encourage that lovely voice to be free, to sing for you. 

You break the kiss, staying close, nose to nose. “Do that again, if you like.” 

There’s a faint blush to his pale cheeks, a shy dip to his head. To your surprise, he repeats the action exactly once more, rubbing into you methodically. You cannot tell if he’s merely being cautious or is just wildly uncertain as to how to proceed in this situation, but you know he’s going to have to relax and get out of his own head if tonight is to progress any further, something which is evidently desired by both consenting parties. So, you tilt your head almost playfully to the side, watching Adrian’s half-lidded eyes unfocused as they rest over a pillow. You pivot your hand so that you cup him more fully, your fingers pointing downward, your palm resting on the top of him. You do not miss his intake of air, nor how his shoulders seem to pinch together and roll back, and so you freeze, wait for his eyes to return to yours.  
They eventually do, your own asking permission. He grants it with a nod, parting his lips. 

“Can you… talk to me? While we do this?” Adrian asks as you begin to palm at him, softly and consistently, each move repetitive and predictable.

“Of course,” you reply, lips near his neck. “What would you like for me to say?”

For a moment, he doesn’t respond, and since you can no longer see his face, you are about to stop. His hips push forward, however, and a sigh escapes him. 

“Anything. I don’t care what it is, just… remind me that it’s you doing this. That you’re here.”

You hum against his skin, pressing a little harder with your hand. Adrian spreads his knees a bit to give you more room to work and him more leverage to move against you as you kneel together at the center of the be. 

Words seem to escape you, for the moment. There’s just something about being so physical that renders any attempts at eloquence to seem utterly futile. How on earth could you possibly convey the depth of emotions coursing through you right now, the joy and the desire and… everything? This all encompassing… love?

“I love you,” you say so simply, rhythm never faltering. “I love it when you hold me close, it makes me feel unbelievably safe.”

Adrian’s arm which isn’t supporting his weight on the mattress wraps gingerly around your lower back, serving as a resting embrace instead of a stimulant.

“I love it when we just exist, together and in our own respective worlds, chopping vegetables or reading in the library with rain on the window.” You brush some hair from his neck, place a firm kiss there. “I love the way you smile, quietly and preciously. The light hits your eyes best then, it makes them glow.”

The blush reaches the tips of his ears now, spreads down his neck, to the valley of his chest. 

He doesn’t stop his motions, however, and you do not stop yours. As in all things, you work better together.

“I love your patience when I’m learning something new, I love your resilience when you’re doing the same. I love the strength of your mind, and that which lies in your body.”

You look at him then, starving, allowing yourself to really see him, the sinuous muscles, the curve to his spine as he moves back and forth. Obvious as the action is, it is not something which slips his notice, and stilling for a moment, as if gradually making a decision, he leans back on his heels in the bed, his fingers ghosting over the hem of his shirt. You watch with something akin to delight as he fists the fabric, pulls it up and over his head. The room has grown dark now, and shadows play across the planes of him, making the raised scars both more and less visible than what even lighting would have shown you.

“God, you’re beautiful,” you breathe, admiring him even in the low light. 

“He had nothing to do with it,” Adrian murmurs, though he sounds not at all displeased by the compliment. In fact, judging by the feel of him against your hand, he’s rather enjoying the ones you’ve already given him.

“Well, you _are_ beautiful. Devastatingly so.” You kiss that dip at the base of his neck, trail your unoccupied hand along his collarbone and down the length of his left arm. You admire the muscles, the tendons of him as though they were a finely wound rope, the kind used on long sea journeys. Your inspection of his arm of course leads to his hand, and while you’ve not been blind to the delicate shape of his fingers in the past, their length is mesmerizing to you know, as is the way they tense and flex as you draw near. You can see his knuckles beneath the skin, the last of the daylight shining on his smooth, neat nails. 

Your hand takes his, and you position him on your breast, a silent ask, a request. 

“Talk to me,” you whisper, gasping a little as you let him latch onto you, his grip supportive and steady. “Tell me what you’re feeling.”

He tightens a little, never ceasing the movement of his hips but slowing a little as if he cannot think, speak, and act with equal ferocity to each at the same time. 

“I…” he shakes his head. Swallows. “I never thought I would have this,” he says so softly. “I still can’t really believe… I’m afraid I’m going to wake up, yet this is the one dream I actually want to sleep through.”

You smile at that, having a similar thought yourself. 

“If this is a dream,” you say, your hand leaving his bulge and finding the waistband of his trousers instead. “Let’s make it count.”

You tug at them, loosening the lacings which hold one panel over the other, keeping the trousers on. Adrian does not stop you, but he does hold very still as you reach around his hips, push the waist down a bit. The scars follow down his torso with no sign of stopping, and you wonder suddenly if his entire body really was bound, if the scars are everywhere. The bed you saw earlier in the morning _had_ been strapped down from the head to the feet… you just hadn't thought about it until now.

Well, you forget about it soon enough, met with other, more prominent distractions. 

Adrian sighs softly as he’s let free, the blush once again returning as he looks to the side. You can’t help but stare at the shape of him, his dark trousers revealing his lily white skin, his prominent, ready member. 

“You know…” you begin, transfixed. “You really do put those old statues to shame.”  
He laughs a little, relieved, perhaps, and if spurred into motion by your words alone, he shifts his weight, gets rid of the last of his clothes. The scars to run all the way down him, but you don’t let yourself focus on them, nor on his strong legs, defined calves. 

You focus instead on his face, his expression. Where his eyes dart to, if his jaw tenses. As far as you know, he’s not willingly been this vulnerable with anyone, this bare. You haven’t really either, but you hardly want him to go through it alone.

So, your fingers linger on the hem of your shift, tugging it higher so that it sits precariously on your upper thighs. You look to Adrian, invite him to do the honors of shedding this last barrier, to close this final gap. 

“You’re… certain you want to do this?” He asks, reaching for the linen. “With me?”

“Yes, quite certain.”

He watches your eyes for a moment, likely better able to see in the growing darkness than you yourself are. As if realizing this fact, he glances over to where the fireplace has a fresh set of logs waiting to burn, and with a casual gesture and a murmured incantation, he sets the hearth ablaze. 

“I’ll not do this in the dark as if it is some secret,” he explains lowly in a voice almost like a hiss, moving closer to you with slow, languid motions. His hands grip the excess fabric resting around your hips and makes short work of pulling it up over your head, letting you emerge from a flutter of white fabric yourself, born bare to this new world, to him. 

He studies you in silence for a moment, the both of you kneeling before the other as equals, as partners. As two people laying uncertainty and insecurity, aside, discarded and shed like the clothes mingling on the floor. You’ve worked through fear together, through traumas which cannot be forgotten as easily as clothes and self-conscious thoughts. The latter starts to creep in once more as Adrian looks you over, as you cannot escape the sense of a carved god looking over a human admirer. You are softness to his angles, fluidity to his rigidness. How on earth can you compare to someone so perfect, so magnificent?

The cold air of the room suddenly feels stronger with the fire sucking out the heat, the change in temperature playing like a breath against your bare skin, sending a shiver up your spine and to your breasts as they protest the chill. You resist the urge to cover yourself, to hide. 

Luckily, you do not have to wait long for your doubts to be abetted. Adrian’s lips find yours in a matter of moments, the both of you reaching for that familiar tether to what you already know. This kiss quickly turns to something different than the tender explorations of the past, however. It becomes a desperate, ravenous thing, your heads turning this way and that, your jaws crashing together like waves trying to swallow the rocks on a beach. You act mostly on some old, human instinct now, falling backwards against the pillows somewhat carelessly. His weight presses on top of you, most of it concentrated at your hips. Your own start to writhe up against him, the flame in your belly igniting and traveling down. The coldness of the room doesn’t seem to matter anymore, not when the heat of it all is making your bodies slick with sweat, your core with desire. Nothing seems to matter aside from the way Adrian tastes on your tongue, the way his skin feels touching yours - teasing and constant and electric. 

Your wish that you knew what to do, how to move, what to say. You wish that you could guide him through this, or at least have some comparison to reference. Whatever Adrian’s doing to you, it's good. Your body responds to it well, even if you don’t consciously notice that his hand has been rubbing at your core until he pulls back and examines the evidence of your arousal glossed along his long fingers.

“Ready?” he asks, a vision backlit by flames and framed by the long hair which has fallen into his face over the course of the evening. His eyes, as you suspected, gleam, hypnotizing you as easily and effectively as any magic gimmick or trick biologically designed for such a purpose. 

As answer, you merely spread your legs so that he may fit between them. “Just, slowly?” you ask as he gets into position, unable to hide the slight apprehension in your voice.

The question draws Adrian out of himself for a moment, away from the dead set, determined gaze of someone with a great sense of purpose. He bends low, places a kiss on the direct center of your chest.

“You’ve been so utterly patient and understanding of me,” he says, trailing kisses up to your throat. “I will do this with the utmost care, I swear it. Say the word and I’ll stop. I... I beg it of you.” He looks up at you through his lashes, something sad in his expression, some memory flickering for a moment in his eyes. Tenderly, he brushes some hair from your face. “Please, tell me to stop. Don’t let me go on if it hurts you.”

_How have you managed to be so lucky as to be given this gift from the universe? This being of kindness and compassion and unwavering care?_

“You have my word,” you whisper, the sentence like a vow on your lips. 

Adrian exhales, nods. He stays in a lowered position, supported by one arm bent near your shoulder. Slowly, he lines himself up at your entrance, slowly he pushes forward.

You feel him most as he enters, sliding against your wetness with relative ease. He refrains from sheathing himself in you entirely, only making it about a third of the way in before he pauses, pulls back a bit. Reassess.

He enters you again, a little further this time, and you’re able to _feel_ him, the ridges against you, the places where the tip of him ends. It’s… pleasant. 

_You’re really doing this_. You almost cannot fathom it. There’s a sense of distance from it all, from the intimate contact your body isn’t sure how to handle yet. How you aren’t really sure how to handle yet. 

You roll your hips against him, wanting to at least be an active participant in your own undoing, and he gasps in surprise. 

“I’m not going to break, you know,” you smile, repeating his words from last night as he freezes at your motion, surprised to hear them from your own mouth.

And so, carefully, deliberately, he slides all the way in. Your feel your body stretching to accept him, repositioning yourself so that everything aligns correctly and entirely. For a long moment, neither of you move, neither of you stoke your respective fires. 

Until, of course, you do. 

It’s a slow start, as all things have been with the pair of you. To have gone from a cold hand on the back of your neck as you first arrived to this tangle of limbs, this cacophony of senseless enthrallment in a matter of weeks with such an incredible partner is nothing short of miraculous to you, and the way your chest swells with pride as your love comes into his own, thrusts into you with ease and comfort and security, is not lost on your either. He trusts you, entirely. He’d have to in order to engage in something like this so soon after he’d been hurt by the very same act. To him, you are worth fighting demons of the past, haunting echoes of pain and punishment for nothing but kindness and charity. 

The thought alone sends a wave of heat rushing through you, and the both of you soon fall into the senseless physicality of it all, the gentle rocking and the little gasps and moans as something new begins to flourish, to rise. One of your legs wraps around his waist, begging him to go deeper, stay longer. At some point his hands fist the sheets with enough ferocity to threaten their integrity. He keeps his pace, increasing it slightly, each thrust threatening to send you falling off into oblivion. Nearer and nearer and nearer you go, until -

You cry out fervently and unintelligibly with a shaking, cut off breath, your stomach tightening as everything else releases, your body pushing itself upwards as the sensation of it all shoots up your spine, arches your back, tenses in your shoulders and your neck thrusting your head to the heavens. Engulfed in dancing, enlivening flames, you don’t realize that Adrian has stopped, that he’s saying your name, holding your face, staring at you with a mix of awe and concern and lust and-

“Did I do something wrong - have I hurt you?”

You’d laugh if you had it in you, if you weren’t suddenly a puddle of ecstatic rainwater graced by the happy rays of post-storm sun. 

“No,” you manage, carding your fingers through his hair, soothing him with a thumb on his jaw. You pull him into a kiss, your mouth feeling wet and pliant and altogether beyond your control. “Quite the contrary.”

You watch his reaction with fascination as realization of what he’s managed to do for you washes over his face, as his mouth drops a little in genuine surprise and reveals the faintest sliver of dormant fangs. 

“...truly?”

You do laugh then, a giggle. A sound so incredibly blissful and happy that Adrian himself can’t seem to refrain from joining you in your mirth, a sleepy grin spreading across his own face. He looks down, shyly, his lower half remaining quite stationary. As separated from your body as you presently feel, you do make the effort to get your tingling limbs to cooperate as you rut against him, remind him of the present and of his own needs. 

“I want you to feel good too,” you say, nuzzling his neck. “Come for me, Adrian.”

The shudder that wracks through his body is nothing short of mesmerizing to behold and to feel beneath your touch, and he falters for a moment, breathing in sharply. 

When his gaze returns to you, it has altered. His eyes are dark, his chin lowered dangerously. There’s something like a growl in his throat, but a softness to his brow which seems to plead, to worry, to speak of Adrian’s own conflicted nature. 

“Adrian,” you whisper again. “Please.”

That seems to do it, for he is once again spurred on into this dance of yours, this ever elusive waltz, this one-two rhythm which sends him flying, falling, and eventually…

You understand how he mistook your reaction for a grimace of pain, for he writhes above you. You sense an added wetness to your core, but you barely notice it for all the attention you pay to the jerking of his muscles, the way he hisses into the pillow so very close to your exposed neck. The way he calls your name so reverently, so full of adoration and praise as if it is the only thing keeping him tethered to this realm.

And, you notice the way his great, gasping breaths hitch, how he seems to shake ever so slightly, how his face stays buried in the pillow for a long while afterwards. 

“Hey,” you whisper, turning over a little as you sense a shift in the mood, the tone. The both of you lie with your legs entangled and stacked but with your torsos sideways, your arms clutching him, his own pressed stiffly to his chest. 

“Adrian, look at me?” you ask, with the softest voice. 

He shakes his head, curls in on himself.

And so you reach for one of his hands and pry it free from his chest, placing it over your heart and holding it there tightly. “Feel me, Adrian,” you say. “My heartbeat. I’m here, you’re alright.”

To his credit, he does seem to calm a bit, swallow once. His hand presses against your heart with a reassuring firmness. You stroke the thick, mottled scars on his wrist delicately, watching for a sign to stop. When he gives none, you move to the latticework around his forearm, then his bicep, reaching around to his chest. When you touch his collarbone, Adrian turns his head to glance at you from behind a curtain of hair stuck to his face by - tears. 

He’s crying. Silently, stoically, almost. Beautiful even in sorrow.

Suddenly you don’t know what to do - if you should continue to comfort him or give him space - have you somehow brought an old trauma to the forefront of his memory?

“I-” he tries, his voice thick and sounding more than a little broken. He shuts his eyes, clears his throat. “I love you. More than I thought possible. More than I… more than I know how to express.”

You peel the hair from his face, and he brings his forearm up to wipe messily at his eyes, pulling you a little closer in the process. 

“Do you need a moment?” you ask as he nestles into you in the same way you’d done in the morning, his body resting atop yours, although you are both somehow buried up to your necks in the sheets. 

“I was… afraid I might,” he admits. “Climaxing like that… I wasn’t… I didn't...”

He sighs, frustrated, and you rub his back soothingly. “You don’t have to explain, love. You can just rest.”

“Only if you rest as well. Here, with me.” 

You somehow get the sense that he’s fighting back a yawn, despite it all. You feel rather tired yourself, rather in need of something to bring you down from the soaring high you’ve both just reached. A nap, or perhaps a deep, dreamless sleep, seems to be just the thing. 

And so, immensely comfortable if not a little tender in places you weren’t previously aware of, you burrow into the feather pillows, the down comforter, the soft mattress. You cling tightly to the dhampir on top of you who holds you back as if you are a rare and precious thing in need of protection. You listen to the fire crackling merrily at your feet, the pattering of snow against the window, and for once, for this one blessed moment, everything seems to be right with the world. Everything seems to be at peace. 

If only such austerity could be guaranteed to go on forever. 

If only this respite from the chaos at large could last.


	31. Day of Reckoning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I have a gore warning on this work already... this is where it comes into play.
> 
> ... Sorry in advance <3

Perhaps it’s the way that when you start to stir, the world is utterly dark. The fire has gone out, the wind howling outside the only sound you can hear. 

Perhaps it’s the way Adrian is hovering hunched over you like a shadow, tense muscles, head tilted to the side, utterly still, utterly silent. 

Perhaps it’s the deep, resonant thud you feel in the stones beneath you, the hammering of your heart as it comprehends what your head takes far longer to realize.

Something is wrong. 

Something is very wrong.

You inhale through your nose, snapping Adrian’s head to you. His eyes glow, in this pitch-stained night, and they are almost all that you can see, two embers.

There is fear in those eyes, but you pretend not to notice. For both your sakes.  
“You need to get dressed,” he whispers, hoarsely. “Your shift and your boots. Now. Leave the rest, there isn’t time.”

You stare at him for a moment, feeling nothing more than a strange calmness, a sense of duty. You have a clear goal, a clear objective. Get dressed, get to the study.

_Leave him to die._

No.

You’ll not think that, lest it be your undoing. Lest it ruin this almost blissful, comforting resolve. This singular purpose of yours. This determination.

So, you nod, and with a movement like silk, like smoke, Adrian rolls off you, exiting the bed and donning his trousers, his boots. 

You’ve dressed before he reaches for his shirt, and so he forgoes it, extending a hand for you instead. You take it, and he leads you around the sheets discarded on the floor, your crumpled blue dress. 

Adrian pauses at the door, his ear pressed to the wood, listening. 

“I’ll get you as far as I can,” he says. “But be ready to run.”

Your grip him a little tighter, not having the words to respond.

He stalls for only a moment, shakes his head once, and then opens the door. 

You hold onto his hand as he flashes the both of you from one hidden alcove to another. Whatever has happened, whatever has gotten in, you can hear it - or rather, them, for it cannot possibly be only one creature. Loud metallic crashes, vibrations in the floor beneath you as if the invaders are trying to dismantle the castle starting with the foundation, as if they want to bring the whole thing crashing down on top of you all.

Maybe they do, in which case, you really might be better off getting far away as quickly as possible. One thing is certain amidst the chaos, however;

It is getting louder. 

“Have your magic ready,” he says, not looking at you, arm to the side summoning his sword from wherever he’d left it. “The energy spell, or the fire.”

It dawns on you slowly that the study is practically on the other side of the castle from the guest wing you’d spent a few hours of the night in. To get to the mirror, you’re going to have to cross the expanse, and judging by both the direction of the approaching sounds and the tenseness to Adrian’s jaw, you’ll be running right through the fight. 

You take a fistful of your shift, the hem of it rising just above your ankles when loose. You quickly tie it in a tight knot mid thigh on both sides and try to remember the magic, the words and the feeling of it trickling slowly to the forefront of your mind and fingers, that tingling itch which begs to be released.

The sensation might be a comfort were it not for the present circumstances.  
Adrian’s sword flies to his grasp with fresh, dark blood on the tip and a banshee's scream to follow suit, and you take a deep, final breath, feeling heavy footsteps pounding into the floor. 

“Don’t worry about me,” Adrian says into your ear as he starts to move forward tailed by his sword. “Just get yourself to safety. Get out.”

He doesn’t look at you once he’s passed you, and you think it is probably for the best, as you’re sure your resolve would break if you saw the panic he hides from his voice lingering still in his eyes, and likely the same would be true if he saw you. To get through this, you’ll have to bottle up all that emotion and worry and doubt and just hope that this will all be over in a few hours, that you and Adrian can fall asleep in your cottage feeling safe and secure and altogether at rest. You’d been robbed of that this night. 

That’s what you’ll be fighting for, then. Peace. Security. 

Hope. 

Adrian becomes a red flash the second a large hulking shape with long claws and even longer teeth comes barreling around the corner, and soon he’s leaping high into the air and driving his weapon into the creature’s shoulders. A scream and a spray of blood follow as the blade cuts up the spine, to the skull, and the creature falls sloppily down to all fours, though it does not stop. Another rounds the corner, and another, and you’re sure Adrian would be telling you to run away at this point, and you know you should, but somehow your feet seem planted to the ground as his pale form twists and lunges around the beasts, the abominations with glowing blue eyes and shrieks that make your veins want to shrivel up inside themselves. There are five creatures now, all barreling towards him on shambling extremities.

“ _GO!_ ” He snarls at you with a spray of blood across the floor which ends an arm’s length from you. 

That seems to jolt your limbs awake, clear the frightened fog from your mind. Your legs spring to action, hurtling your body forward like a startled deer. You dart down a side hallway you’ve only traversed once or twice before, and you think it leads to the great hall, but you cannot be sure. You cannot be sure of anything at the moment aside from the harshness of your breath and footsteps echoing around you, mingling in with the thuds and cries of the fight around you. There has to be more than the few night creatures you’d seen. The sounds of it all are too loud, too present, too all encompassing. 

You leave the side hall, finding yourself in the wing of your old bedroom. You pass your cherry door, knowing that there is nothing in there which is worth wasting time to get. You do pause for a moment though, thinking of the training trousers you’d worn whilst sword fighting and how you might prefer to be running in those instead of your white linen shift. 

However, you don’t have time to think on the matter. A rank, festering odor stings your nose, and when you turn over your shoulder, a sickly gray creature is lumbering silently towards you. Blue eyes are rimmed with garish purple veins which travel down its naked body, short legs with a hulking torso and tree-like arms which end in four fingered clubs. It stares at you for a moment, a tilt to its disproportionately small head, and then with a laugh like the very first night creature you’ve ever had the misfortune to encounter, it starts to move once again down the narrow hallway. There is nowhere for you to go aside from one of the adjacent rooms, but even then you are merely prolonging the inevitable. Turning around would lead you back to Adrian and away from the study. 

No, you cannot run. Crippled not by injury but by environment, you must stay.  
You must fight. 

The creature swings itself forward on those long arms in the same way you’d propelled yourself forward on crutches all those weeks ago. It is not slow, but there is a sloppiness to its swiftness which makes you think that its reflexes aren’t particularly developed either.

You plant one foot behind you - a fighting stance, Adrian had once instructed - and swipe your palms against each other, swiveling around a sphere of flame with that familiar utterance muttered under your breath. 

The creature emits a strange clicking noise in the back of its throat which sends the hair on your arms sticking on end, but the sound is soon cut short by a screech as you send a medium sized ball of flame hurtling forward, getting ready to dash out of the way. 

The fire hits the creature in the shoulder, as it ducks at the last second, avoiding a blow which should have hit its face. Burning flesh permeates the air and makes you gag, but you take the opening you’ve made for yourself and sprint past the writhing creature, make it on the opposite side of the hall. The thing pursues you, however, and you cannot afford to turn your back on an enraged enemy. The spell is still active in your hands, and so with a spin and motion as if you are pushing through a thick wall of water, you use your momentum to thrust three balls of fire into the creature, the sizzle of that pale skin as it disintegrates mixing with its final hiss. It crumples to the floor, a writhing mess of disproportionate limbs. It is either dying or sufficiently wounded, and so you move on, not having the time or the reserve of energy to expel such resources endlessly when you need not. 

You do not encounter another creature for the rest of the hallway, nor in the next, but you sense them gathering, approaching. Preparing to swarm.

When you turn the corner and arrive at the top of the stairs in the great hall, you see your suspicions confirmed true with a sinking, horrifying dread. 

There has to be thirty of them, at least, congregating in the large space as if holding mass, their forms twisted and warped and utterly different from the next, each the work of a cruel and uncaring artist constructing their awful, macabre masterpiece.  
You almost just stand there, unmoving, unblinking. Their eyes all turn to you before you have a chance to run, their mouths creating a cacophony of buzzing and snarling and rattling laughter. For all their brute force, they do not seem entirely unintelligent. They have to know what little chance you have, what sort of odds are stacked so vehemently against you. 

You take a fumbling step back, your hands tensing. One of the creatures reaches the bottom of the stairs, baring a large, toothy grin up at you as it waits for you to make the first move, to become the attacker. To start the fight. 

Well, as pointless as it all seems, you aren’t intent on dying instantly. 

So, hoping for some sort of miraculous salvation, you throw down a tall wall of flames behind you, and you make a run for it down the next hallway.

Or rather, you _aim_ to. 

Another trickle of night creatures coming down from it stops you dead in your tracks. 

You cannot run forward, nor backwards. 

You dart to the right just as the creatures start to pick up their speed, hurtling towards you with more force than you thought possible. 

You remember the fight you’d had in the ballroom with Adrian, how you’d been lunging and throwing yourself away from his attacks at the last possible second. 

So, you wait, let the thing charge at you, its sallow skin stretching wide over its thick neck, its hand outstretched to grab at you. 

You shoot up a flame where you had been moments ago, and kick off the wall to turn and blast the thing from behind. This would have worked splendidly to your advantage, had the move not rendered you surrounded on three sides by pissed off creatures not thrilled at your having burnt them to a crisp. The upper floor is covered, there are no exits. The lower level is swarmed with them, but… you know that there are doors behind the staircase which lead to unused servant halls, and you doubt they could fit into those tight spaces so easily. 

So, sucking in a breath and making a decidedly brash decision, you take your only option and lunge yourself onto the thick staircase railing, sticking your shift beneath you as your legs straddle the smooth surface and you slide down it. You might laugh at yourself, at the way your legs seem absolutely incapable of not wanting to grip the railing tightly and stop your increasingly fast advantages down the large, winding track, but you hold the wide bannister handrail loosely ahead of you to guide your path with one hand and extend the other outwards and slightly behind, flames crackling at your fingertips to fend off aggressors and propel you forward as they draw nearer, apparently amused by your stunts. 

Well, you make it to the end, where a swarm of them await you. You hit them with flame, wondering in the back of your mind if you’re going to run out of that power soon and need to figure out some sort of alternative. You look over your shoulder, seeing the pathway to the servant doors free and clear. So you bolt for them, legs flying beneath you with more coordination than before, your mind and body more finally aligned and awake. 

You should have watched your back more closely - a tail of some kind swipes through your shins, sending you toppling downwards and slamming into the floor with enough force to knock your teeth painfully together and expel all the air from your lungs. You barely roll yourself sideways fast enough to avoid a large, vertical mouthful of teeth, but you have more creatures to contend with. You’re spun now, the pathway to the servant’s doors swiftly blocked by more hulking shapes. 

_Shit_.

You try to get to your knees, and then to your feet, but they keep hitting you, knocking you back down as if it is some sort of game, as if they intend to play with their food before consuming it. 

Before, when you had stumbled out into the snow and been met with the night creature, you had been paralyzed by fear, by your own inability to do anything. Now, you are filled with anger, with pure undulated hatred. Why couldn’t they just leave you and Adrian alone? Why couldn’t the both of you be safe and happy and left in peace?

Why can’t you just be happy?

With a bitterly resentful cry which could rally an army, you kick up into the creature lunging over you, knocking it off balance and sending a particularly aggressive burst of flames at it. You throw yourself to your feet, lashing out senselessly in all directions, surrounded as you are. You won’t make it out of the swarm, you can’t make it alone. 

Thankfully, you don’t have to. 

A familiar flash of silver, a spray of blood, and Adrian hurtles towards the creatures, attacking those surrounding you from behind as you take the offensive at their front, the both of you working closer together. He looks over to you, doubtlessly worried about the sprays of errant blood flecking your skin, wondering if any of them are from a wound on yourself. 

Your eyes catch on a particularly nasty looking green thing behind him, but your warning is cut off with a guttural screech by something resembling a harpy to your left as your flaming hand comes into contact with its skeletal abdomen. Adrian lunges away at the last possible moment, but there is a gash on his arm when next you catch a glimpse of him, and a grimace of pain written plainly across his face. He jumps up, gestures for the sword to find its mark in the green creature’s skull, and a strange, acidic bile trickles out of it and mixes with the blood. You see the same substance tinging his wound a moment later, and you notice a sluggishness to his motions as the both of you continue to struggle to get to one another. 

He’s arching the sword through the air, supplanting its stabs with swipes of his claws, his movements jagged and forceful, but they are not enough. The gash on his bicep seems to be giving him a great deal of pain, as he keeps his right arm pressed tightly to his chest. For your part, you’re fairly occupied with spinning and shooting fire from your hands, but you too are feeling the toll of it all. Your arms burn from being held up, they’re shaking, sloppy. 

From the corner of your eye, you see the monsters surrounding Adrian, you see flashes of silver and sprays of blood, but he is utterly engulfed in their sea. 

You crouch, press your fingers to the floor, and concentrate on two lines of fire spreading out like whips to the two closest to you. They light up, writhing and shrieking as the rest have done before them. You cannot hold the fire for long though, and too soon you are forced to extinguish it. They continue to burn, but not forever.

You are running out of time and energy - fast. 

Something knocks into your shoulder from behind as you start to stand, and you are sent tumbling down, landing on your wrist in a painful angle as you fall with a startled cry. 

Adrian starts to call out your name, but it is sharply cut off halfway through.

You look up, knowing that your focus should be on whatever just knocked you down, but as soon as your eyes latch onto his between the half wounded, dark silhouettes hungrily observing this dismal slaughter... you cannot look away. 

Adrian’s eyes are wider than you’ve ever seen them, his mouth hangs open. He’s taller than you remember, but as your gaze recklessly travels down, you see why. 

Somehow you can’t bring yourself to look at his stomach, or at his chest. At the red blooming there fervently. For some reason all you can do is look at his boots as they dangle over the ground, at the steady stream of blood trickling down their black leather and pooling on the floor beneath him. 

No, you cannot look at the clawed hand ripping through his body, its large, garish wrist twisting around his stomach, holding him up by lodging itself carelessly beneath his ribs. You can only stare at his gaping mouth you’ve only just kissed twisted in a silent scream, the thin, pale hands which have caressed you so tenderly grappling uselessly at the assailant from behind. 

You watch - no, you _listen_ as the creature removes its hand, the awful squelch of spilled intestines and ripping flesh echoing hollow in the room. Adrian makes a sound worse still as his limp body crashes to the ground, a sort of breathless gasp which rattles and gurgles and makes you want to scream. 

And then you don’t hear much of anything at all. 

All you see is white, and all you feel is a terrible, pulsating, burning rage. 

You aren’t aware of the words you utter, of the way your strained, aching hands tense as you fling out your arms. You’re aware that your throat burns with the effort, that there are tears searing down your cheeks. You know that your knees cut into the floor as you crawl to Adrian, your path suddenly cleared, but you don’t register the sting of stone at your joints nor the way your hands are still outstretched with some wretched, intrinsic instinct to maintain your spell.

There is a pulsating, blue-tinged energy wall surrounding you like a dome, one which has sent the night creatures flailing back into the corners of the room, watching you with hatred in their eyes as you crawl over the pool of blood, the liquid tuning your shift red as death itself. 

Adrian lies on his back, eyes still wide, but paling. Glossing over. 

The wound through him spurts and oozes, and you never thought that the inside of someone could be such a bright and vibrant color. You aren’t even sure how to describe the slick, spongy texture of the mess you can neither bear to see or seem to turn your gaze away from, nor do you want to put such horror into words. 

Adrian coughs, or perhaps he tries to speak - you cannot tell. The world has gone blurry for you as you reach forward and bring his head into your arms, his shoulders and torso draping across your lap. His hand faintly reaches up to find yours. 

“Why aren’t you healing?” you sob, your voice sounding shaky and distant and not at all like yourself. You can barely even hear it over your frantic, panicked heartbeat. “Why isn’t it closing?”

“Venom… claws. And… already weak,” he chokes out, jostling his injured arm as explanation. “Can’t.”

“Try, _please_ -” you urge, cutting yourself off for fear of sobbing uncontrollably. Whatever demeanor of control you’d had, whatever illusory sense of purpose - it is all gone. Abandoned. “ _Adrian, please_.”

He shakes his head, or rather, he rolls it slightly from side to side. All around you, the creatures start to inch towards the barrier, wanting to test their strength against yours. 

You know it won’t hold forever. You’ll have to give up at some point. 

“Adrian, you can’t… you can’t di- you can’t leave me right now,” you urge, shaking him a bit when his eyes start to lower.

“Run,” he says, simply. Painfully. “While you… can.”

“ _Adrian-_ ”

“I...love… love you.”

You stare down at him, utterly horrified. He reaches up to cup your cheek, wincing either at the effort or at the blood his hand smears on your skin. You grasp it, firmly, as if you can stop him from slipping away. The barrier is weakening. You need more time, more strength. 

_Why isn’t he healing?_

His hand squeezes yours, barely, his remnant of a voice small and frightened. “... _please_.” Blood drips freely from his mouth, coating his fangs. You’ve never seen so much blood in all your life, nor have you ever seen someone so utterly pale and unmoving. 

Vampire. 

_He can’t die_. If he dies then why should you run? What is the point in your carrying out a plan meant to save and preserve the both of you if it is to doom you to mourn him for the rest of your miserable days? 

How can you go on living knowing that he’s dead? How can you leave his body here alone as you run off, leave him to be mauled and bitten and -

 _Bitten_.

The amount of time it takes for the idea to form in your head is truly astounding to you. _Already weak_ , he’d said. Weak from previous injuries, from not drinking blood to maintain his full strength. From not allowing himself to heal. 

You don’t care if he’s against this sudden notion, you don’t care if it leaves you worse off. If you die, you’re going to die together regardless. You don’t even have time to debate yourself on it.

And you’re all out of other options. 

You push up your filthy sleeve, baring your forearm. 

Adrian stares at it distantly, the same thought obviously not apparent to him. His mouth is already open, however, and just as the question begins to dawn on his furrowed brow, you shove your forearm into his fangs, wincing as you feel them pierce your skin. 

His eyes shoot open instantly, his arms flying up to grasp around you. You can’t tell if he’s trying to pull you closer or push you away, but for the moment, you are the stronger of the both of you by far, and you hold him tight. 

Eventually, you see his throat swallow, his eyes squinting tight. A deep, heady moan replaces his anguished gasps, and he sits up a bit more, one arm reaching down to prop himself up. Either he’s accepting your help or is unable to stop himself from instinctually drinking your blood in a situation such as this, but you get a sense of indescribable euphoria as you watch his stomach painstakingly knit itself back together, as the pool of blood stops growing around your kneeling form and a bit of color returns to Adrian’s face. You remember reading distantly that vampire fangs secrete a calming chemical of sorts, and despite all the horror around you, the things starting to throw themselves against your weakening barrier, you are grateful for such a chemical flooding your shocked system. Not as grateful as you are for Adrian finally starting to heal, of course, but for a moment the blind panic subsides, and you can take your first full breath since waking up on this terrible night. 

The world seems so light all of a sudden, as if you are floating, as if Adrian is holding you in that bed again, or perhaps as if you are already far away in that cottage, nestled together in a mound of blankets while the sun climbs above the horizon, soft rain pattering against the window, the stream outside…

Adrian rips himself away from you, panting, and the lightness ceases as you slump back with it. Somehow the barrier has remained intact despite it all, but it flickers now, hands and claws and talons grasping for weak points. 

Adrian is kneeling as well now, his back hunched over, the muscles there tensing and straining as he stares pointedly ahead with an unfocused gaze. 

“You... you should go,” he says in a voice once again altered. No longer is it impeded by blood, by lungs threatening to collapse, but neither is it the soft, dulcet tones you love so well. It is deeper, sharper. Strained.

You can see his veins pushing out of his skin, you can see his own claws lengthening. He won’t look at you, even when you reach for his jaw with a shaking hand. 

“Are you going to be alright?” you ask, hardly able to get the words from your lips without slurring them together. You really aren’t in a good state. 

Adrian neither confirms nor denies your question. He opens his eyes as answer, and you are met with red sclerae. His brow is tensing in a manner which is almost grotesque, and his fangs are lengthening. So transformed is he that, had you not known he was your Adrian to begin with, you might not have recognized him in passing. 

“I’m not myself,” he hisses, holding so incredibly still. Holding himself rigidly, as if he’s afraid to hurt you by giving into whatever more vampiric desires are flooding his system. “I… I’m slipping, you need to go.”

“You’ll be alright, though?” you reach for his abdomen, finding smooth skin where the hole had once been, though he is still drenched in blood. 

He shudders at your nearness, but he nods, looking down again, focusing on a spot on the floor. 

You stare at him, your mind trying to reconcile the three versions of the person you love which you've just seen in rapid succession. The man, the martyr, the monster. 

You brush aside his gore-drenched hair, reveal his face, and bring your lips to press against his. You taste metal on his tongue, his blood mixing with yours. The kiss, like his body, is stiff, alert. Barely restrained. Around you, the barrier wavers, patches appearing in which the creatures start to wrench themselves through. 

“I love you,” you whisper against his mouth, earning a sharp intake of air in response. “Find me when you win, Adrian. Find me.”

With a snarl, he nods, his kneel turning into a crouch. Beside him, the sword once again jostles to life, but does not raise itself. 

“I promise to,” he says, but for all the modulation, all the fracturing of his voice, you can barely understand him. The edges of your vision seem to go dark, as if Adrian is sucking all the light from the world around you.

The relief you feel when you release what is left of the tentative, flickering barrier rushes over you, so much so that you almost forget to pick yourself up and run off. 

Adrian one again flies into action, propelling himself forward with the speed of gods, of forces beyond that of nature. But he is faster now, stronger. He slices through the creatures as if they are no more opposition than the snow falling outside, fighting his way through the crowd and drawing their attention with reckless abandon. 

Stumbling, you get up, slipping on the floor as you do, but you take off at the fastest speed you can manage with your spinning head and blurring out vision. You can’t tell how much blood he’s taken from you, or if the energy spell drained you far more than you realized while casting it, but you are not by any means in a stable or safe state. Your mind is cloudy, your thoughts muddled, your hands holding onto the walls for support as you climb spiral staircases, as some sense of purpose buried in the back of your mind pulls you towards the study, down the endlessly identical hallways. 

If there are any more night creatures, you know you cannot fight them. You aren’t even sure if you’ll be able to summon the mirror, if you have enough stamina for that. 

By some small miracle, the way to the mirror is clear. There are claw marks in the walls, evidence that things had passed through at some point before you are. You register that the night creatures must have broken into a room deeper into the castle then - perhaps the gear room, and they all made their way to the front halls.

_Why would they congregate there? What were they waiting for?_

You round the final corner, you see the study door left slightly ajar. You summon what last bit of strength you have and fight the pounding in your skull, the water sloshing through your thoughts with each lurch of your legs forward. Your hands, flecked with thick, drying red, push the door open, your weary eyes catch on the mirror shards as they rally to life, aligning themselves as if they are fighting for you, as if they want nothing more than to spirit you away to somewhere safe.

Somewhere behind you, distantly, you hear a thud, some unfortunate ghastly thing hurtled at the wall by Adrian’s wrath. Again, you can’t help but wonder why the creatures were in the hall at all, cutting you off so conveniently from this study. The gear room is so far away, why not make hell there? 

_Why are they even here? Why this band of random, unsupervised night creatures?_

You push the thoughts away, trace the sigils on the responsive glass, think of the stone cottage with the wooden beams and soft stream and windows to look out at the stars. You think of the meadow and the bed and how nice it would be to rest, to fall down and sleep and be awoken by Adrian, triumphant and whole and _safe_. 

The mirror clicks together, twinkling at you and giving you the courtesy of not showing you your mottled reflection. It shows you that safe haven, that sanctuary in the meadow, surrounded by stars and snowfall and tranquility. 

There’s a whisper in your head, though, the mirror trying to urge you of something, warn you, perhaps. Its cool mist is blocked by the barrier of exhaustion already fickle and present throughout the ambient buzzing in your skull, and all you can focus on with your last bit of energy is taking one step towards the mirror, then another. You’re so close, you can smell the snow, the pinewood surrounding the meadow. 

You’re so _close_. 

But something cold and hard latches around your neck in a grasp like death’s biting embrace, and instead of stepping into snow, your feet hit the air, hit nothingness as your vision swirls, as you cannot catch your breath. You kick, futilely, your hands reach for your seized neck. Your spine feels like it’s going to snap, your wide, frightened eyes bulging like they’re going to burst out of your head. 

The mirror splinters, slowly raining to the ground like tears, like sorrow. Like mourning stars weeping for your destruction. 

Your world goes black before you see the shards kiss the floor, and the last thing you know is a terrible sense of falling into an endless, ever-rising sky and drifting off into that dark, abysmal nothingness.

You wonder if you’ll see the stars on your way up.


	32. The Desolate Dawn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick warning again - still a lot of gore here, and also Adrian is... very sad. Just a heads up 💛

The feeling is indescribable.

It is not rage, nor calm, nor fear. There’s a sensation something like being tossed into an ocean of ice during a tempest, weighed down beneath the frothing waves by some shackle of what used to be, Adrian supposes, humanity, tying him precariously to his inner sanity. Though, he feels that tether weakening. He’s not a man, anymore, aside from perhaps only in the deepest recesses of his mind, the place he’s gone in the past when he was inconsolable, alone in those silent moments of immense, debilitating grief.

Everything is red. It had trickled in during those last few moments of true consciousness, but it’s all he knows now. 

There’s blood on his hands, his claws. His fangs. Scarlet. There’s a tinge to his eyes, his sight. Crimson. He barely sees his silver sword glint - he hardly even uses it. He does not rely on base training, on tactics learned in his youth. No, the desperate fighting of limbs rippling sinuously with brute strength, the frantic, deafening gallop of his own heart barreling away in his too tight chest - is not trained. 

It is instinctual.

One creature down, beheaded, perhaps. The wound starts with a metal gleam and finishes with the crunch of bones and sound of flesh being ripped away with a choked, gurgling scream. Alucard tosses the head away, slides on the blood coating the floor as he lunges for the next. To a human, his movements may have appeared graceful, for the speed at which they are carried out covers all the mistakes, all the missed opportunities he’s thinking and moving too quickly to calculate. There is no foresight, no planning. There is only one moment in the entire universe, one moment that shifts into the next and is instantly forgotten. He lives, sees, fights, breathes, in but an instance. An instance which seems to last forever, and yet, an instance which dies as quickly as the things between his hands enter and leave them. 

Perhaps he’s not even thinking at all anymore. Perhaps that’s for the best, for if any thoughts were able to gasp through the muddled surface of this indescribable emotion, this state, they would not be about his horror towards this beastly thing he has become. The thoughts would relish in the carnage, delight in the defensive massacre in the way a vampire would. 

If such thoughts were to exist, Adrian himself would surely cease to do so. And he’s still in there, somewhere, hiding within this cold, tempestuous ocean inside, one which cuts and burns with its chill, numbing his senses until hours, minutes, or perhaps even days later in this world of living by moments, it stops.

It all stops.

The ocean, tepid now, reaches low tide. His heart slows its panicked race, gradually of course, beating sluggishly later when he wakes up on his side in a fetal position, arms outstretched and grasping his sword, body surrounded by blood and gore and flesh he doesn’t remember clawing at so viciously but that is so obviously evidenced before him that he cannot possibly deny his own accountability. He’d done this, he’d filled the halls of his family home with more carnage than he’s seen in his lifetime, shockingly enough. And through it all, the throbbing in his head and the fatigue in every other physical part of him, there’s a faint sweetness still, nestled in the back of his mouth, under his tongue, in the space where gum merges with softer, slick flesh. The crevices of it all are filled with the taste of you, the tang of something much different from the grime covering him head to toe, staining his hair and his shirt and his skin.

_You_.

He places a hand on his stomach as it drops low in worry, the wound mostly healed now. Certainly soon to be the lightest of his scars. 

Your face, pinched and pale before the deed was done, tearful at the end as you beheld the monster he fought to hold back for just a few moments more. 

His tongue runs over his lip, as if he can taste you there too. There’s a split in his skin down the center, and the taste intensifies exponentially - your blood, your blood mixed with his.

His knees weaken, his arm grapples for the bannister. He’d been making his way to the steps, the main steps. He’d barely even registered where his feet were going.

Adrian can’t feel you. He can’t hear you in the halls, he can’t smell you in the air, though there are so many other scents and signals assaulting his senses it would be a wonder if he could. He should go to the study. He should make sure you’ve gone, made it through. 

But what if you hadn’t? 

What if he finds you torn to shreds on the way there, mauled and tattered and-

He’s going to be ill. He didn’t think he could be ill, he didn’t think that was a trait he himself possessed. His stomach, angry and malcontent, empties itself by the edge of the stairs, bile and someone else’s blood. Your blood. You.

He’ll have to clean that later, he realizes, wishing he were less practical of a person. 

The climb up the stairs is dizzying. There are drugs humans use, he knows, things to cause hallucinations, to induce a sense of lightness. Blood, or at least live, living blood taken for the first time must have a similar effect, because his eyes cannot focus on the steps in front of him, his balance cannot remain upright without heavy aid from the railings, the walls. An occasional lit sconce hot to the touch. Heat that he barely registers despite the burn it leaves on his fingers.

He’s long since passed the place in the hall where it happened, where a pool of his own blood spreads like a wine-dark sea against the stones, endless and treacherous and wide enough that its lack should have rendered him dead. For some reason beyond him, the sight only registers when he’s reached the halls atop the stairs. The implications hit a long moment later.

He should have died. 

_Keep moving_.

The place is deafeningly silent, his own breath sounding like the crashing waves on a beachfront. He can’t remember when exactly he’d seen the ocean, but something in his mind says that you’d enjoy the waves on the sand, the sun on your face. He would enjoy seeing your enjoyment. You’d make each other happy. 

_Keep. Moving._

You can’t be dead. You can’t be sprawled out somewhere for him to find. Whatever tentative piece of himself pushes onward despite everything, despite the pounding in his head and the numbness to his limbs, will crumble. If you are dead, he’s certain he won’t get up. Castle to defend or no, he’ll have had enough of life, for what good could it possibly be without you to light the way forward? What else could be worth getting out of his coffin, waking from what he would hope to be an eternal slumber?

Adrian has never been optimistic. He’s been realistic, realistic with a heavy air of caution, operating under the assumption that the worst possible variables are typically the most likely. He knows he should believe that you made it out, that you are safe, that he can call up the mirror and find you like you’d asked him to, if only to keep his wretched sanity from unraveling further, but he can’t help but assume the worst. Prepare for the worst. 

He can’t afford to hope, and yet…

The air is colder when he rounds the corner, the smoky scent of snow bites at his nose, seeps beneath his skin. 

_There’s a draft._

_Why is there a draft?_

The attack had come from many places in the castle, taking advantage of all the unofficial, broken entrances which did not require permission to be crossed through. All the shattered windows and battered walls. That will have to be remedied. The castle itself can only do so much at the behest of its master, even one as reluctant as Adrian himself is. But, there are no marks of a struggle in this hallway, the one which houses his father’s study. No marks aside from the ones he himself had made months prior, the dent in the floor made by his own back, scratches from Trevor’s sword. 

_Why is there a draft?_

It only gets stronger as he nears the door, some sense of dread running up from his knees and hollowing out a place in his cavernous chest. 

Adrian notices the smaller things first, in this scene. The little differences to how he had left it before. Somehow, his eyes, stinging, can only see the overturned chair, the books and the maps which had all shifted a bit, been rifled through. The blackened hearth is now white with snow instead of ash - there’s snow dusting everything, dotting the floor, lining the shelves. There’s more snow outside than Adrian has ever seen - raging and white static and entirely impassable, whispering and wailing over the sound of the blood beginning to pound in his ears again, the frantic, shallow breaths he can no longer seem to take quickly enough. The window is shattered, but its glass is not on the floor. No, there is no glass on the floor. Not from a window, nor a shattered lamp, nor, and perhaps most notably, from a mirror. 

There are no footprints in the room. No sign of a struggle aside from the broken window and the missing remains.

The mirror is gone - taken. The fact, the notion, seeps like black ink into his thoughts, swirling and tainting and blotting everything else out. They had come for the mirror - 

There’s a fluttering at the window Adrian takes to be a bird at first. It looks so much a dove’s wing in the corner of his wet eye.

He crawls to it, having sunk to the floor at some point he doesn’t quite recall, foraging like an animal through the snow, desperate. Terrified. 

It’s a bit of trim, the hem of a once white linen garment, stuck to a glass shard at the base of the window. He reaches for it, grasps it close to his chest. He can smell the scent on it even with the wind whipping around his face, for there is a great smear of blood - of _his_ blood, of red against the pale white of it all. 

Steeling himself, he looks out. Looks down. Expects to see your body on the ground below, framed by red, shrouded by scarlet demise. Perhaps you’ve been entombed by snow already - perhaps he won’t be able to recover your body until the winter thaws, thus living in a perpetual state of worry and wonder and terror that he will find a frigid corpse of the woman he once loved so desperately. 

But you are not beneath the window. There is no red on the ground, no scent of blood on the harsh air. 

You are no longer in the castle, nor do you lie shattered upon its grounds. 

You are _gone_.

Adrian realizes with a familiar, sinking horror that you have been stolen away, taken prisoner by the attackers, by the night creatures and whoever organized them.

Again, images come slowly, memories dredged up out of his dark, swirling thoughts, from something which seems like a bad dream he’s not quite yet awoken from. Snatches of white adorning several of the beastly figures, tattered remnant garments unremarkable at first, but embossed with a design, a signet of brutal elegance and loathsome charm in its curved lines and sharpened edges. White livery, a symbol learned and recited early in his youth, seen again only later, in the fight to claim his father’s life...

_Styria_. 

And suddenly, terribly, through the fog marring his cognizance, Adrian knows. If they took you alive, if Styria acted with the intent to bring you back to their boneyard of a castle…

Red seeps back into the edges of his vision, swarming the barrage of thoughts, fears, images. Recollections of things he’d learned in the past, the methods of torture and madness and pain that lies in wait. 

Once again, he crashes hard into the floor with a senseless, gasping cry, with the feeling of being cleaved in two and left to die an agonizing, slow death.

_He should have died_. Perhaps Adrian did die, for Alucard knows how futile the situation is. How far away you are and how weak and useless he is on his own. It is needlessly cruel and selfish and unavoidable all the same for him to think his resurrection a misfortune, to mourn the way your last gift condemns his wretched body to carry out a life engulfed in the shadow of knowing how he let you be taken. He’s damned, sentenced. _He cannot save you._

Your life, fragile and distant, taunts him, cuts him down. Guts him more effectively than the creature had however many hours ago. He is not his father, he does not have an army, a fortress, an iron will. 

Oh, but how identically he has inherited his rage, his despair. His desire to watch the world burn. But without the means to make something of these volatile, repugnant emotions he once so loathed to witness before he tragically _understood_ them...

Your only hope is the mercy of a swift death at the hands of those ruthless Styrian sisters. It is the barest imitation of comfort, to think that the best outcome for you would be the absence of suffering, but Alucard is not so naïve.

Even such a meager, forlorn thought, such a distant hope… well, it is far too much to ask for.

Despair, it seems, for the both of you, is painfully imminent, and once the tears start to roll down his filthy, pallid skin and splash on the empty floor beneath him, Alucard fears they’ll never cease.

As he cries, as he mourns, the tears which come begin to mark yet another inherited trait, for they are not the crystalline droplets he’s grown so accustomed to. No, not any longer. 

Like everything else on this terrible night, this awful morning, they too are changed, tainted. 

Crimson rolls down his cheeks. Scarlet. Red. A vampire’s misery. 

_Bloody tears._

_...End of Part 1..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My goodness I have so much to say to you all. I figured I'd save myself some time in the comments by listing some things I anticipate being frequently brought up here:
> 
> Firstly - don’t panic! “End of Part One” only refers to where I am in the story for anyone wondering - there will not be a gap between the next update, nor is this the last chapter of “Pitiful Creatures.” I’ll continue this work right here as usual with an update sometime next week (I’m not sure if I’m shifting updates to Friday/Saturday as opposed to Wednesday yet, I have to adjust to a new schedule and appreciate your patience with me as I figure things out)
> 
> Secondly - if you’ve been in the comments at all, you’ll know I am promising a "bittersweet" ending. I should probably say that it airs more on the side of sweet than bitter - I know this chapter is incredibly dismal, and since so many of you voiced such concern for our protagonists in the last chapter, I thought I’d give you a little more hope than what I’ve alluded to thus far. There have to be consequences for the bad things in the narrative or else they aren’t worth writing in, but there WILL be happiness to come, there will be resolution. You may hold me to this promise <3
> 
> Thirdly - I’ve gotten so many lovely comments, so many kind words, especially on the last chapter. And art! A few lovely friends have made art inspired by this fic, which makes me so incredibly soft and happy. The support you have all shown me throughout the ~6 months or so I’ve been writing this is more than I could have ever hoped for, and from the very bottom of a heart which has begun to thaw, I thank you all, for reading, subscribing, and bookmarking, for giving kudos, for leaving comments, for analyzing the words I’ve written and the images I’ve conjured.
> 
> Thank you! (╯▽╰ )  
> 💛Flowyen💛


	33. The Dismal Return

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Start of Part 2 ;)

The winter woodlands of Wallachia are not an easily surmountable obstacle. Dark, twisting branches reach high into the air, their sharp, barbed spires piercing the grayish, snow-filled sky like daggers, like ink. White snow coats their limbs like ash, or perhaps like decay, the pale color rendering everything nearly unrecognizable in the daylight, utterly impossible to navigate through in the dark. 

For one covered wagon traversing the solid, frigid earth, the woods don’t seem to move by at all. 

The wagon navigates the snow-packed path precariously, having at least one wheel replaced, countless dark grooves carved into its body and several patches sewn haphazardly in the canvas tarp stretching over the top of it. The horses prattling the old thing forward have seen better days themselves. Their coats are dull, their ribs a little too visible. Two travelers sit hunched in the wagon’s shelter, not faring much better. A dark cape which might have once been quite splendid is wrapped tightly around their shoulders, its threadbare edges tugged at by the wind. 

“Are you sure this is the right way?” Sypha asks, her voice sounding small and weak amidst the cold world around them, her words swallowed up by the dense snow. 

“To be honest,” Trevor replies, gruffly, exhaustedly. “No, not entirely. Everything looks so bloody different after a blizzard.”

“There’s only one road. We’ll stumble upon it eventually.”

Trevor looks at her from the corner of his eyes, appreciating her optimism, even if it has been dwindling over the past week. Spirits run low after Lindenfeld. Their little stint in the great wide world no longer feels like some fairytale adventure, some great exploration with romantic underpinnings to keep them warm at night and low-level monsters to take care of in the day. 

No, the world is much darker now. Much colder. 

It’s time for a break.

Having no place else to go, they’d set the path for the old Belmont estate, for the castle newly neighboring it. For the friend they had left there to rot. 

Sypha shudders, but it has nothing to do with the cold. “Do you think he’ll be alright? Alucard? After all this time?”

Trevor stiffens a little, his hands never leaving the reigns, but not possessing enough energy to put up much of a fight while discussing the topic neither one of them had been brave enough to bring up in the months since their departure. 

“Vampire bastard’s probably sitting on his cushy throne with a book in one hand and some wine in the other,” he says, clearing his throat. “He’s certainly better off than we are.”

“You don’t think he’s been lonely?”

“It’s only been a few months, Syph. I’m sure he was happy to have a break from us. There has to be a coffin in that castle somewhere - if he was really unhappy he could just go to sleep. There’s probably a whole crypt of undead relatives come to think of it.”

Sypha wrinkles her nose. “Be nice.” Alucard had looked so horribly sad when they’d left, his small smiled farewell not quite reaching his eyes.

“He hasn’t been sleeping outside for the last four months. I have. I’m tired.”

“I know. So am I.”

They both sigh, their breath puffing out before them like ghosts.

“If you had to guess,” Sypha asks, affecting a more cheery tone. “How much longer?”

“Dunno. We sure as hell aren’t stopping in any more inns. Or towns. Lindenfeld aside,” he winces, “there’s this feeling. Something isn’t right. People are restless.”

“If we had stayed longer in the last place and actually _talked_ to someone -”

“What, and get roped into some other fucking crusade which turns out to be a massive waste of our time?”

Sypha doesn’t say anything in response, and Trevor takes it to mean she agrees. Stubbornly. They’d not left their cramped little inn room for the whole night that they stayed in it, but there was a sense of unease, of needing to look over their shoulder. Everything seemed tense, and neither Trevor nor Sypha had slept much. They’d rested in each other’s arms, with half their clothes still on, the desire to be prepared in case all hell broke loose overpowering the desire for touch, for comfort. 

Perhaps they felt the castle would be safe, at least more so than unfamiliar towns and unfriendly stares. Trevor’s been taking extra care to cover his family crest on the road, to appear bland and unimportant whenever they passed some other lonely souls traveling in the opposite direction. While he’d never boasted his name or occupation before, he’d never actively hidden it away with a strategically placed cloak or Sypha’s arm held close. It feels strange, to disown who he is, but he’s not looking for another fight. He’s not looking for something else to get involved in. He’s looking for a fireplace, a bed to sleep in without the fear of waking up and seeing the thing in flames. He’s had his fill of occult magic, of deception, of harebrained rescue attempts for vampires who should stay in hell. 

“Is that it?” Sypha asks, leaning forward and shaking Trevor out of his thoughts. A slender finger points above the treeline where a single castle spire juts out above the dark, twisting branches. 

Something like relief floods his chest with warmth, some hope that he can finally rest. He could sleep for a year, Trevor is sure, if someone would let him. 

The darkness beneath Sypha’s eyes suggests the same is true for her. 

“Yeah, still far off though. We won’t get there till sunset at this rate.”

“Do you think he’ll have food?” Sypha asks. “I don’t think he ever ate with us before.”

“I can always trap a squirrel or something.”

Sypha wrinkles her upturned nose. “I’m so tired of squirrels.”

Trevor snorts. “Me too.”

“That doe was nice though. Last week.”

“Took long enough to track.”

“Hhm.”

Sypha shifts a little on the creaky wagon bench, Trevor sighs.

“Think it’s too much to ask for him to have any beer in some godforsaken cellar or something? You know, between the vampire coffins and all that?”

“You can’t just walk in and demand he gives you all of his alcohol.”

“Why not? I doubt it does anything for him - vampires have higher tolerances.”

“Do they?” Sypha smirks, jabs him in the ribs. “Or is this another half-remembered generalization from your childhood?”

“Most poisons don’t work on them, alcohol is a type of… er, poison, so it stands to reason…”

Sypha snorts. “You’re hopeless.” Then, “I wonder if he’d get drunk just by drinking your blood.”

Trevor sputters a little. “What?”

“I mean, with the amount of beer you inhale, I think anyone would.”

“Don’t give him any ideas. I paid good money for that cheap beer and I’d like to keep it in me as long as possible.”

Conversation between the two travelers dwindles to something less chatty soon enough. They’re used to going along in relative silence, listening only to the creaking of wood and the clomping of hooves. They’d talked much more at the beginning of it all, when they’d set off in the early fall with injuries fresh from Dracula and hearts pattering away with new kindling as they stole side glances at each other, a slipped robe or unbuttoned collar sending a rush of heat through the onlooking party. Sypha knew no shortage of stories, of course, and Trevor had found himself enjoying her little tangents about the linguistic shift of dead languages or some mostly forgotten history of whatever town they stumbled into that week. She’d listen to his voice late at night, his rasp addled by sleep and smoky campfires as they fell together searching for warmth and some kind of affection they’d both been craving for longer than they’d realized. Sypha liked Trevor’s physicality, how he could draw her out of her head. He liked her for her thoughtfulness, for the way she’d brush the hair from his face and make him feel, for lack of better words, soft. Civilized, for once. A little less wild, a little less like an unwanted vagabond. 

Such a dynamic meant that it was only a matter of time until they came together like waves crashing on a shore, inevitable and steady and constant. Of course, Lindenfeld has changed things a bit. Conversations die before they begin more frequently now, often sealed with a squeezed hand and a sigh instead of something more concrete, but even so, that seems to work out just fine. No matter what scum-filled town they pass through, so long as Trevor has Sypha to remind him that at least some people are worth knowing, he can go on. As long as Sypha has Trevor, has someone working so hard to overcome the evils of the world and the hurt and pain drenching his past, she can have faith that there is still hope for people to choose to be good. 

Even if more recent evidence points sharply to the contrary.

...

The castle seems eerily quiet when they reach it, the sun having disappeared behind the horizon an hour or so prior to when they get out of the carriage, stretching stiff legs and protesting backs. It is little more than a spired, blackened silhouette when they leave the wagon, tall and looming and distinctly more ominous than either of them really remembered it being.

“What are we gonna do with the horses, you think?” Trevor asks with a yawn as they walk up the front steps. 

“Alucard will tell us. I’m sure there’s a stable or…”

Sypha’s voice trails off as something metallic drifts by on a breeze. A moment later, Trevor senses it too, his muscles tensing with well-practiced instinct honed by a decade of recognizing the rather distinctive scent of blood caught on a draft. 

“Have your whip ready,” Sypha mutters, pushing back her robe and freeing her hands. 

Trevor nods silently, an air of resignation haunting each movement. He steps forward, presses an ear to the thick wooden door, listening for sounds to go with that smell, for screeches or murmurings. He realizes with a sinking stomach that the sun indeed has set, and has to force down all the warnings he’d grown up hearing about never fighting vampires after dusk, to always wait until just before dawn to strike hard and fast. It seems as much against his own nature to step over the threshold of the palace as it would be for a vampire to cross into someone’s home uninvited, he’s sure. 

But hearing nothing, Trevor swallows, and with a deep and final breath, slams his shoulder into the front door, grunting sharply at the impact. 

“That’s not going to work,” Sypha hisses as if it is the most obvious thing in the world. 

“Yeah, well… you could have told me that before I blew out my shoulder.”

“I could try to melt the metal hinges keeping them in place, but that’s probably going to take some time.”

“I think you’ve done enough melting to this place already,” Trevor huffs. “If Alucard is still in there I doubt he’d appreciate it.”

Sypha glances over her shoulder at Trevor, then at the horses. One of the latter is digging a hoof into the hardened ground, evidently looking for something to eat. Food has been scarce the last week or so, and she’s sure they’re hungry. 

“The horses aren’t scared,” she remarks thoughtfully. “There probably isn’t a threat, then.”

“Or they got used to running into all the night creatures we’ve already cut down and sold for parts. It’s not like that was a rare occurrence, Syph. If I didn’t know better I’d say they’ve been multiplying.”

They both stare at the door awhile longer.

“You don’t have a lockpicking spell or something?”

“The door isn’t held by a lock. It’s a deadbolt of some kind, and a trace of old magic, but I might just be sensing residual leftovers from Dracula himself. His magic was very strong.”

“Think there’s another way in?”

“Most likely. Do you feel like sneaking around the exterior looking for it?”

Trevor sighs, rolling his neck. “Not really, but I don’t think we have any other options, unless you think me banging repeatedly on the door will draw him out.”

Sypha shakes her head. “If he _did_ find a coffin to sleep in, I doubt he’d hear or appreciate that.”

“So we’re just gonna break into his house instead? Do you honestly think that’s a good idea?”

“That’s what worked for us the last time under Gresit.”

Trevor doesn’t reply, and instead follows Sypha as she walks down the front stairs and makes a sharp right, leading around to the left side of the castle when facing it directly. It is too dark now to discern any real features of the behemoth structure aside from its impressive height and highly improbable architecture. Sypha summons a bit of flame between her index and pinky finger, holding it aloft for light. It flickers against the dark stones, the imposing walls.Trevor’s eyes scan the woods as well as the castle, searching for a threat as avidly as Sypha searches for a door. They both seem like fruitless attempts until Sypha’s head snaps to attention, a smaller door hidden by a bit of inset wall revealing itself at long last.

“It looks like a servant’s door, no?” She asks, excitement in her voice. 

Trevor glances over, recalling what little memory of what constitutes servants’ doors he has from childhood. “Is it open?”

Sypha’s fair, thin hand reaches out to brush the metal handle, her fingers wrapping around the bar and then pushing firmly inward. 

To both their surprise, the door grants them entry to an understated, lightly colored, fairly narrow hallway. A few hooks are drilled into the wall which sport a gray cloak and a dark coat lined with a familiar gold trim. A door on their left led to by a few steps down seems to likely house a cellar or way to access a lower level. An opening to the right leads to a kitchen, dark and uninviting at the late hour. Dried lavender hung by the sink sways in a slight draft, and the smell of blood only intensifies as Trevor and Sypha silently step through the space, walking past two abandoned teacups sitting out on a table near some honey. 

The kitchen leads to a larger, grander hallway running parallel to the main hall. Should they continue down it, they would find studies behind the doors on their left. To their right…

“Fucking hell,” Trevor mutters lowly as they step into the main hall. “What happened here?”

They had fought in this room before, months ago when they’d last entered this castle as intruders. It had been filled with a few straggling guards and what Alucard later explained as Dracula’s war council. They had singed rugs with walls of fire, thrown sharpened ice and scathing whips at their enemies, clearing the hall efficiently and quickly. There was not much blood then, as the vampires disintegrated to ash upon death.

Lindenfeld had burned the image of carnage in Trevor’s retinas, of monsters twisting and clawing and bleeding out on an abandoned chapel floor. He’d seen countless bands of them wandering the roads on his journeys with Sypha, hauled them to the nearest town and picked up a reward. 

But _this_ … it makes even his knees a little weak.

Swallowing, Sypha extends her flame high into the vaulted ceilings, expanding it and holding its flickering light steady. It glints off clouded, dull eyes littering the hall like flies, reflects in the half-dried pools of blood drowning the stones in a still, macabre ocean and dying errant scraps of fabric its dark, sickly hue. The vast array of twisting, tangled limbs and grotesquely clawed open ribcages make it almost impossible to count the full number of creatures, of beasts slain so thoroughly. It is clearly vast, however. An awful amalgamation of open mouths filled with sharp fangs as long as a forearm and severed limbs reaching for an abandoned salvation.

Sypha’s shaking hand reaches for Trevor, and he pulls her close, his own heart hammering away in his chest. “What if he’s dead?” she stammers. “What if we waited too long to come back?”

Trevor looks down at Sypha, at her big blue eyes darting frantically around his face. He wants to tell her that Alucard is fine, that something had to have killed all these monsters. That there’s some explanation as to how they got in, what they’re doing here. 

But the stench of the place is overwhelming. The castle is dark, cold. A draft echoes faintly in far off corridors, snatches of wind tearing through empty rooms like distant wails, like strangled cries. There isn’t a sign of life to be found, no footsteps, no sanctimonious jabs at their shabby appearance made to diffuse the tension by an annoyingly pretty dhampir. They were supposed to be safe here. It was supposed to be different than Lindenfeld, quiet, calm. Sanctuary.

This is anything but. 

Whatever Trevor might say to comfort Sypha, to salvage the last bit of hope fading by the second in their shared look of distress… it all seems inadequate. No matter how many words he runs through his head, no matter how many pointless, shallow, white lies of meager solace he can come up with… none of it will suffice to displace the evidence to the contrary, the astounding loneliness and death surrounding them, entombing their bodies in a dark shroud, a massive tomb. 

He opens his mouth to speak, to say what - he doesn’t know, but movement above the grand staircase catches his eyes. Down the hallway at the top, strange wall lights slowly flicker on in succession, giving the sense that something new draws near as they do.   
Sypha turns to look over her shoulder, pulling the flame to sit in anticipation above their heads, a pained expression pinched across her face. The first half of the grand hall is flooded suddenly with light just as a silhouette rises above the top of the stairs, the sudden shift in brightness making Trevor and Sypha wince as their eyes used to the dimness of night struggle to adjust. 

Trevor’s hand hovers over the handle of his whip, Sypha’s flame threatens to flare. 

But then their eyes adjust, and two shocked faces meet a third, even more worn and wan than they had left it, than their own expressions have become. 

Wide, ember-like eyes stare at them from a face sharp and angular, cheek bones jutting out harshly in the limited overhead lighting. Hair which they’d known to be glossy and well kept in even the most desperate fights hangs limply and messily over shoulders which are no longer squared and proud, shoulders which are dropped low on his thin frame. Tattered clothes, blood on the hem of his pants and splattered across his boots. 

All this, this sudden shift in appearance, this physical transformation into something almost unrecognizable, it could all be overlooked, forgotten. Explained in the back corners of Trevor’s mind as he weighs in the observation that what’s left of his friend seems to be mostly intact, as Sypha notes the way he lowers the silver sword glinting in the air beside him. All of this could be made light of, fixed with some rest and good food and by being together.

But as soon as he opens his dry, thinned lips, as soon as the sound of his voice cuts through the deafening silence and betrays his intense suffering, his all encompassing grief, Sypha’s heart seems to forget how to beat and Trevor’s stomach drops through the floor.

Alucard rasps with all the strength of a corpse confronted with a pair of ghosts, words full of disbelief and eyes full of an immense sorrow unbearable to witness even at such a great distance.

_“You came back.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SO excited to write these three, you all have no idea 💛💛💛


	34. Sinking Revelations

Darkness is a funny thing. So often it is frightening, holding back sight in exchange for feeling utterly defenseless, alone. Naked in a world suddenly foreign, hands grasping blindly, groping desperately for something - for anything. A corridor wall, perhaps, or the next tree trunk in an inky black forest beneath a moonless, starless sky. So often it is healing, its anonymity a shelter, a safe passage for fugitives of one sort or another looking to flee, or perhaps to rest. To recover. 

For you, it is all you’ve come to know. Coming to your senses is a slow, fickle task, one which yields less than pleasant results as you start to stir a little, as you register your own heartbeat pounding like war drums in your chest, in your ears. In the darkness of your stirring, you hear sounds like distant waves on a shore, snippets of conversation ebbing and flowing in and out of your awareness. 

“Oh good,” someone says, her voice chipper and yet somehow undeniably calm. “We were getting worried with the silence on your end.”

Someone much closer scoffs, her voice sturdy, deeper and with an eastern inflection. “I’m sure you were.”

“Well, Morana was.”

“And Carmilla?”

Your blood freezes. Amidst all the haze, the fog in your head and the darkness coming with it, you recognize that name, the sound of it trickling down your spine like ice. 

“She trusts you, but… Carmilla is Carmilla,” the first voice sighs. “She’s been breathing down my neck since you left. I’m sure she’ll be happy to know you’re safe. I assume you were successful?”

A slight pause. “Yes, but…”

“What?”

The deeper voice, which you think belongs to a woman as you wake a little more and can start to think more clearly, takes a breath. “There’s going to be a slight change in plans.”

“Oh? Did you not get the mirror?”

“No, I _did_ , things are just more complicated now.”

There’s the sound of shifting dirt behind you, and you blearily open your eyes just a fragment, just enough to peer inconspicuously through your lashes. You swallow, your mouth quite dry, but doing so causes a sharp pain in your throat which doesn’t want to cooperate. You’re aware of more pain in your body, the harshness of something hard digging into your side where you lay, something else weighing down your arms folded to your chest. 

“What on earth is that?”

“A girl,” the second voice snorts. “Barely.”

“...And you kidnapped her?”

“The mirror is more complicated than Carmilla thought,” she continues. “It isn’t like the ones we talk with - we wouldn’t be able to use it. She got it to work.”

“There was someone else in the castle?” a third voice asks, quietly, distantly. Male. 

“Evidently,” the first woman says, sharply, her husky, pleasant voice sounding as though it is directed somewhere behind her. 

Another pause. 

“Did you take her clothes, Striga, or are humans just innately more primitive than I remember in their fashions?”

Whoever is talking, they are at your back, and though the voices in your head all seem impossibly loud to your frazzled, barely functioning senses, you don’t think they are particularly close by. You feel the warmth of a fire, hear its crackling echoing off small walls around you. You open your eyes a little more and are met with a jagged, rocky cavern, shadows dancing across its surface and betraying your outline every few seconds. There’s another shadow, impossibly tall, but fainter and further away. You tilt your head down, also painful, and find that you are still wearing your bloodstained, filthy undershift, sticky and stiff and no longer even remotely white. 

It is a small relief, despite everything else, to know that at the very least you aren’t entirely naked.

“I wouldn’t know,” the woman you who presume is called Striga answers. “It’s what I found her in, reeking of creature blood and dhampir.”

“We were right, then,” the unnamed woman says. “Isaac isn’t at the castle, it was the son of Dracula that took care of the scout.”

“And his human pet.”

“How interesting.”

_Oh god, Adrian._

The fight comes flooding back, the desperate, panicked spells and the sight of him lying in a pool of his own blood, the creatures lunging forward. Older memories surface too, recollections of being grabbed in a market, having your wrists tied together and lying in the back of a rickety horse cart, a bag over your head. 

“Is he still alive?” the man asks. 

Your breath, already ragged and hoarse, hitches, your war drum heart faltering. 

“I didn’t see him,” Striga says. “Left on the winged creature and sought shelter before the sun came up.”

The woman sighs. “Carmilla won’t like not knowing.”

“I left all but the three creatures which fly with him in the castle,” Striga says. “I doubt he’s alive, and even if he is, who’d come after a lost pet? He was going to kill her anyway.”

“You just _left_ all the-”

“Hector,” the other woman chides. “What have I said about speaking out of turn?”

 _Hector. Isaac_.

He mutters something you don’t quite catch.

Your head feels like it’s going to burst, your chest cave in with all that you’ve just learned. You don’t know if Adrian’s alive, but you don’t know he’s dead, either. If whoever’s kidnapped you hadn’t seen him rip into the creatures like they were nothing after being revived by your blood, then they likely wouldn’t suspect him capable of defending himself alone. After all, he’d said that vampires wouldn’t see him as being equal. There’s a chance that he got away too, that he can find you. 

But then again, do you _want_ him to? If you’ve been taken by Carmilla - by Styria, does he even stand a chance at getting to you without both of you dying in the process? 

Do you even want to find out? One way or another?

You try not to dwell on it, instead doing your best to focus on your own, immediate situation. Perhaps you can get away like you did before, perhaps there’ll be a chance for you to flee to a human village and find sanctuary. Is it daylight currently? Is that why you’re in a cave, waiting it out? If you can make it out into the open air, surely you won’t be followed by the vampire who’s claimed you, though the three night creatures could prove a problem. But if you can get to a village, be pitied into a safe house somewhere, maybe a church...

You remember your half-wild appearance, however, and start to second guess yourself on that. Could you hide? Could you find another cave somewhere? Would you survive the winter alone without having any idea whatsoever of where you are? You could be days away from the nearest village, or start off in the wrong direction and freeze to death before finding your way.

_And what the hell is wrong with your damn throat?_

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” Striga says to the sound of her getting up. “Remind Morana to sleep, will you? Tell her I’m fine.”

“Try not to kill the human,” the other woman says brightly. “She looks half dead already. They’re delicate, you know, and you aren’t exactly the most gentle of us all.”

Striga snorts, and then you hear a familiar sound of cracking glass and the rustling of some sort of bag. The cave falls into a silence long enough that you can surmise that Striga had been speaking to the other two voices through some sort of mirror - perhaps one designed for communication and not transportation. Something akin to the Belmont mirror. 

Assuming the vampire you’re with isn’t entirely incompetent or hopelessly bloodthirsty and does indeed refrain from killing you accidentally… perhaps you’ll survive this. Until tomorrow, whenever that arrives, at least. If you could turn over and survey the other occupants of the cave, see what manner of night creatures you’re presented with, perhaps you could decide whether or not you can make a getaway. But, if you make it known you are awake and listening in on conversation, what then? Surely it is better to play dead for as long as possible to avoid interaction before it becomes a necessity.

When you’d last been held prisoner, manhandled and scared with promises of servitude, it had been autumn. You’d been travelling human roads, working by human rules. You knew that towns were bound to be nearby when you jumped from the wagon. The castle and the dhampir had been a lucky coincidence, but even had you not run into Adrian, you’d had a much better chance of survival then. At the very worst, you would have been hauled back into the cart and kept a closer eye on, but you could have always tried to escape again. 

Now, you have no concrete plan, no concrete knowledge. You can’t check yourself for injuries, you can’t get a sense of where you are or what you are up against.

All you can do is lie there, for now, and try to warm yourself with the knowledge that Adrian isn’t known to be dead, that there’s an equal chance of him being alive and well and on the way to rescue you. You try to remember what it was like to lie with him, see him backlit by flames and filled with so much tenderness, so much love, because quite frankly, all you can remember when you picture him now is the blood pooling from his torso, dripping down his mouth. The rage and pain and destruction in his eyes. 

You shiver a little, wondering if your absence will be more detrimental to him than you might have first thought. If his father had been driven mad at the death of his wife, what will Adrian do when he realizes you’ve been taken? Is there anything that _can_ be done, or are you a lost cause? 

Your throat constricts as some wetness comes to your eyes, and you vaguely recall being strangled from behind in your last moments of consciousness. As your eyes adjust, as you blink through the tears, you can see the puncture wounds on your wrist peaking out below where your limbs are bound. They haven’t healed yet, they’ve barely even scabbed over. It must not have been long, then. 

The sound of steel against rock makes you flinch, mostly out of surprise, but the noise comes again, a slow, smooth grating. The woman - Striga - must be sharpening a blade, again and again, the sound rattling around in your skull like an alarm bell. 

The way forward becomes clear in those hours before dusk, as you lay prone and at the mercy of an uncaring assailant. You will not survive by trying to flee, you will not survive by trying to fight. 

You will survive by being clever, by playing to your strengths. 

And until then, you will survive by mimicking a corpse and holding very, very still.


	35. War Stories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's for all of you who like Adrian's broody, inner monologue chapters 💛

The library seemed like the best place to take them, Alucard thinks, stepping back from the fireplace and staring at the flames which don’t do much to warm the chill in his bones. The Hold is too far away, too formal. Too inescapable, with the one way in and one way out. They aren’t looking for an investigation, for answers found in tomes or in scrolls or chests hidden away in dark corners of an underground cavern, though he wishes they were. That would be much easier than the answers they really do seek, the ones which force him to dredge up months of history, pain and pleasure and a grief so devastating he still feels as though there’s a wound in his stomach which won’t ever heal, a claw through his chest.

Still, he’s doing a better job of coping than he would have expected, all things considered. 

Trevor and Sypha, by the way they stare at him with wide, worried eyes, would probably disagree, but they hadn’t seen him before. Had they seen the way he tore through the castle like a creature drugged on his first taste of fresh, mortal blood, or the way he stumbled around for hours aimlessly afterwards as he tried to come to terms with what had happened to you, they would have been impressed with his present composure. Were you here, you’d likely be horrified by the state he is in, but then again - were you here, he wouldn’t be so tense in the first place, so held together with a rigidity that primes him to snap at any moment, to cave under all the stress and pressure just barely keeping him up, keeping him moving. 

He’d spent the day after you left hauling all the night creatures he could find into the main hall, trails of blood adding to the castle’s state of disrepair. They’d come in through the shattered gear room windows, broken quite a number of others in the process. The windows were high in the air, so either the creatures had climbed or some had learned how to fly. Alucard meant to burn them all in one go. It might have been useful if he’d had the sense to keep one or two alive and try to get answers out of them, but he hadn’t been thinking clearly. They were all dead, at least, and he could piece together what had happened more or less in the aftermath of his carnage. 

He tells as much to Trevor and Sypha as they sit with cups of tea on the chaise. It’s a struggle to look at them there while he stands off to the side, away from the scent of your favorite tea held in their mugs. Everything is still a bit off, for him, sense wise. The lights are too bright, the smells too strong, the sounds too loud. That’s why he’d been taking the bare minimum of light with him throughout the castle as he worked, why his guests had arrived to near total darkness. He keeps more lights on for their sakes, though he himself is still seeking out dark corners in which to brood and tell his tale of woe. 

He answers their questions fairly literally at the start. “What happened?” is met with “Night creatures, evidently.” Trevor presses him for more, and Alucard says that they seemed to be meant as a distraction for him while something else was carried off. Sypha asks what that something was, and Alucard tells her of the missing transmission mirror.

“Night creatures have use of a transmission mirror?”

“No, Styria does.”

Trevor stares dubiously at the tea, evidently not knowing what to make of something without alcohol as its main component. “Styria… that’s important because?”

“Because they sent the night creatures. They apparently wanted the mirror.”

Alucard’s companions exchange glances, and both take long sips of the drink in their hands.

Alucard does not mention you, not at first. He isn’t sure why, really, it’s not like he’s ashamed of you, or even terribly concerned with the teasing he’s sure to endure from Trevor once he realizes that the cold dhampir has a soft spot. Perhaps he’s ashamed that he couldn’t save you, that he was too foolish to recognize what was actually happening, that it was a trap, that your plan wouldn’t work.

He’s not sure he’s ever going to forgive himself for that.

Perhaps mentioning you is just too painful, at the moment. It might wreck what little semblance of sanity he's managed to muster up for these unexpected visitors, and the last thing he needs is more people seeing him as a monster in need of executing. 

“Do you have any idea why they wanted the mirror?” Sypha asks gently, like she’s speaking to a fickle child who isn’t in the mood to chat. The irony of the situation is not lost on him.

Alucard sighs, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall. His sleeves are pushed up on his forearms - he’s been washing his hands almost religiously when he can - and he sees their eyes catch on his scars. For a moment, he wonders if he should be more concerned about that, if his heart will twinge with panic at being seen. 

But it doesn’t. Evidently, his heart has bigger issues to contend with, or it’s stopped functioning altogether. Who can say, really? Certainly not himself. It simply doesn't seem to matter anymore.

“How much do you know of Styria?” he asks, sighing, sounding more tired than devastated or even annoyed. His own voice sounds empty to him, though he supposes it doesn’t sound any different to Trevor and Sypha - they had known him last when he was hunting his own father after all. He hadn’t exactly been chipper then either. 

“It’s supposed to be run by witches or something, isn’t it?” Trevor says doubtfully. “Up in… Austria?”

Alucard looks to Sypha, expecting her to have more knowledge on the subject. 

“I’ve heard stories of… women rulers, generally disliked by the surrounding kings and populace, but those are more recent tales among my people. I’m not sure when the power shifted, just that it’s a place we’ve been told to avoid.”

_So they know very little._

“It’s run by vampires,” he explains rather directly, launching into much the same tale he told you. “Their leader, Carmilla, was on my father’s war council but escaped before we got here. I found records in a journal my father kept,” Alucard waves away Trevor’s raised finger and questioning look. “She has a forgemaster, and in the time you’ve been away and I’ve been here, they’ve clearly built up quite a formidable army.” Alucard gestures to his current state of disarray. He had indeed washed his hands, though he’s not yet bothered to coax the blood from his hair. He hasn’t let himself take the time for a proper bath. It had hardly seemed necessary. 

Again, Sypha leads him to the rest of the story. “What use would she have for a transmission mirror? What are her plans?”

“I’m not entirely sure,” Alucard admits, sighing. “I know that the whole expanse of land from Styria to Wallachia is essentially unclaimed, as my father once controlled the territory as his own. I’ve hardly got any stake in things, and so I expect Carmilla wants to take it herself. That’s likely the only reason she came to my father’s aid in the first place, to take his land. With him gone she has almost no opposition.”

“Strategically speaking,” Trevor begins, surprising everyone, “they could use the mirror to cut out travel time, couldn’t they? Send night creatures through to wherever they want.”

“Aren’t they difficult to operate, though?” Sypha asks. “There used to be dedicated professions to the creation and use of magic mirrors, were there not?”

“There likely were. It is not an easy skill to acquire.”

And yet _you’d_ managed. You’d managed so well that you’re likely being held against your will for that very skill. 

Unless of course you’re already dead, taken as nothing more than a quick meal for the road home. 

_No, not thinking of that right now._

“You said Carmilla has _almost_ no opposition,” Trevor says, jolting Alucard from his dark thoughts. “ _You_ don’t plan to lay claim to Wallachia, do you?”

“Don’t be absurd, I want nothing to do with it.”

“But someone else does?”

Alucard tilts down his chin in a single nod of affirmation. “Isaac - another forgemaster who was loyal to my father. He got away in the fight, I suspect by using the same mirror that was taken. My father… favored him. Spared him, I suppose. Right before we got to him.”

“Dracula had a soft spot?” Trevor says, disbelieving. Sypha elbows him sharply in the ribs. 

“He had several,” Alucard says, not at all put off. A bit of curiosity pools in his chest as he wonders if Trevor will even be able to hit a nerve with him tonight or if he’s gone too numb to care. “Regardless… I’ve been keeping an eye on things, using the mirrors. Over the last several months, Styria has been expanding, pushing into my father’s old territory, but something has been slowing their forces. Isaac would be the only one capable of creating an opposing army. The scattered human kingdoms don’t stand much of a chance alone against vampires and night creatures, they aren’t what’s stopping them. The mirror might give Styria a needed edge.”

Trevor and Sypha both sort of stare at their laps for a moment, processing the fact that a war has been brewing beneath their noses for some time, apparently entirely unobserved.

“I thought this place was a fortress,” Trevor says, rubbing his eyes with his rough, broad hand. “How’d they even get in?”

“Sypha blew out a lot of the windows when she melted the engine room.”

She opens her mouth to protest, but again, Alucard waves her away. “It was our only option at the time, it’s fine. I just haven’t had a good way of replacing thousands of old, artisanally crafted glass windows. I boarded some of them up, but…”

“Can I put wards up for you?” Sypha asks abrubtly, looking a little guilty. “I can’t believe I didn’t think to do that before leaving, Alucard. I’m so sorry.”

“Might be a bit late for that, Syph.” Trevor pats her shoulder consolingly, and Alucard raises an eyebrow at their closeness, though his scrutiny is unnoticed on their end. Heightened senses inform him that they smell a good deal like each other, but that could be from just sharing the road for so long. 

“Did you meet up with your speakers, Sypha?” he asks, tiredly. So much of his life for the past few weeks has been desperately consumed by the war plans of Styria, and now that you are no longer here to distract him, Alucard finds himself searching for any kind of relief from the thoughts threatening to break him, ones of you bound again bloody, bruised - 

“No,” Sypha says. “We planned on it at first, but…” she glances to Trevor in a way that holds some sort of meaning Alucard isn’t privy to. “I’d never traveled on my own before, did anything exciting that required magic. We sort of went off on our own path instead, taking the horses through random villages.”

There’s a fondness in her eyes, hidden by something somber. Trevor had helped Alucard take the horses down to the underground passageways beneath the castle while Sypha grabbed their essentials from the wagon and brought them inside. A fair amount of the palace had been converted to livestock pens for when the human race was to be eradicated, and there were still places for them to rest and oats stored and preserved for them to eat. Alucard pitied the poor beasts, those carthorses. They looked half starved. 

He himself doesn’t look much better, but that is besides the point. 

“And you… came back here because?”

Alucard’s attention turns to Trevor when Sypha looks morosely away. His face is fixed on the flames flickering aimlessly in the hearth, the hard line of his mouth set firmly in a frown. 

“We needed a break,” he says, flatly. “Hunting monsters was getting old, the towns were becoming a little under appreciative of our services.”

 _He’s holding something back_ , Alucard realizes, watching the muscle in Trevor’s jaw tense. The sight makes him uneasy, hints of the notion that these friends are planning some kind of duplicity -

_No. People can be good. You and your gentle smiles were - are good. These are friends, they can be trusted._

But they are two in number, and Alcuard has seen them fight. Blood-heightened physicality or not, if they really wanted him dead, they could probably manage.

Still, Alucard keeps his sword in its scabbard at his hip, the weight of it reassuring, especially to his fried nerves, his hyper-alert state of near-paranoia. He’d cleaned the blade until it shone again once the bodies had been all found and inspected and confirmed to be quite dead. He’d hate to have to clean it a second time.

“We also missed you,” Sypha says, softly. Alucard blinks, looks to Trevor, expecting him to deny it, to brush her sentiments off as being too soft for him to share.

But he merely shrugs in agreement, rubbing at the back of his neck somewhat absently. 

As sincere as he’s senses Sypha is, Alucard isn’t quite sure that he can fathom having been missed. _You_ would be missing him, he’s sure, and probably are currently. You’re likely terrified, waiting for him to come in and save you from the horrors of the world you don't belong to, the demons which walk on one side of his heritage while you’ve been pulling him towards the sunlight on the other. 

No, Sypha is merely being nice. Kind. After all, they’d had each other while he’d had no one of lasting significance prior to you, and judging by the way they almost seem to move as one, the way Sypha’s head rests on Trevor’s shoulder like it was meant to… well, Alucard knows what that feels like. They wouldn’t have had time to miss him, to think of him, really. They seem to have been too tangled up in their own company. 

Alucard swallows a rising temper he didn’t know he possessed - evidently drinking human blood brings all sorts of detriments with it, quirks and misgivings that he can only hope will fade away given time, emotions besides a general sense of being forlorn.

Rage. 

Tempered. Controlled. 

For now. 

“You were hoping for somewhere safe to rest,” Alucard sighs, a slight tinge of bitterness at the edge of his words. “I’m sorry I cannot provide that for you, though you are of course welcome to stay despite the fact that this place is in shambles, reduced to a crumbled shadow of what it once was.”

 _A trait I’m beginning to share_ , he adds silently. 

Trevor glances up at the ceiling. “It looks pretty stable to me.”

Alucard scoffs. "Don’t look too closely, then.”

“Thank you, Alucard,” Sypha says, glossing over the thinly veiled tension. It’s strange to hear his other name on her lips, or perhaps it’s just strange to hear in general after you’d used his real one for months. Sypha hasn’t said “Adrian” before, and he isn’t sure if it would feel strange to have her switch. He is, for all intents and purposes, a different person when you’re gone. Trevor and Sypha know him as the tactician, the dhampir. 

You knew him as a human, or as close as he can get to passing for one. 

Alucard looks down at the tea between Syha’s fingers, the mug Trevor left on the table. It dawns on him that he has barely moved for the duration of the present conversation, a stationary figure positioned warily in the corner, eyes glinting with firelight and hidden secrets. 

Though, his guests seem equally as reluctant to speak at present. Were you sitting on that chaise, he’d ask what is on your mind. Were Taka and Sumi there… he isn’t sure what he’d say, really. He didn’t expect things to be so awkward with Trevor and Sypha, not after what they’d endured together, but it seems as though both parties have been shaped by what they’ve endured since separating, and much like his own experiences, Alucard isn’t certain that theirs is entirely pleasant, either. 

Still, a little twinge in the back of his mind encourages him to question, to pry just a little bit. Some buried instinct wants him to give into paranoia and sleep with his sword in reach lest another dagger find its way through his chest. 

But this is _Trevor_. This is _Sypha_. Regardless of circumstances since last speaking, Alucard can still see the woman he once knew in the way she scrunches her nose while stifling a yawn, her graceful hand bent towards her mouth with the same ease it has when spellcasting. He can still see the hunter in Trevor in the way his eyes glance over the place nonchalantly, the way his mouth rests in a frown which suits rather than darkens his expression. These are the people he grew to care for, the people he fought with. 

The people he trusts. 

“You’ll have to regale me with tales of your adventures at a better hour tomorrow,” Alucard says, forcing a smile to his face, injecting some expression into his otherwise flat voice. “In the meantime... I assume you’d appreciate some beds to sleep in and a bath.”

Trevor scoffs, lightly. “I don’t smell _that_ bad, Alucard.”

“You smell as though you belong in the stables,” he retorts, surprising himself a little with how easily the words fire out, how effortlessly. 

“We haven’t even been here an hour and you two are already arguing,” Sypha chides, standing up. There is mirth in her eyes, amidst all the shadows, and Alucard’s heart begins to beat a little less frantically in his chest. She turns, looking more serious, more grounded. “Can I help you with the bodies in the hall before we go up? You mentioned burning them.”

“I’m perfectly capable of lighting them-”

“Hang on,” Trevor says, standing as well. “You’re going to set those things on _fire_ in your own entry hall?”

Two fair faces turn to blink at his, evidently not seeing the issue with such an intention. 

“Have you ever smelled burning flesh?” he elaborates, folding his arms. “Singed hair? I don’t care how big and drafty this place is, you’ll both be smelling a lot worse than me when you’re done.”

Sheepishly, Sypha turns to Alucard. “He does have a point. The smell _would_ be terrible.”

“I’d rather not have them just decomposing there, though that admittedly already has a stench.” Alucard sighs, able to pick up the rotting flesh even this distance from them, though his clothes are still covered in a fair amount of their blood and do not make catching the scent difficult. 

“I could make a platform to slide them outside,” Sypha suggests after a half-hearted moment of contemplation. “A thick sheet of ice. We burn them out there instead.”

Trevor nods as if the matter is decided, and Alucard wonders if they’d even take his opinion should he offer it. Without saying another word, he leads them out of the library and down the narrow hallway, making a left into the grand entryway lavished in carnage. The lights overhead flicker on at his arrival, though they too seem tired, weak. His father’s magic might finally be fading. 

Or perhaps his own heart just isn’t in it anymore. 

Who can say. 

Sypha’s magic is not like yours. Hers is effortless, wordless, even. A quick gesture and precisely positioned hands, and soon enough, the mountains of mangled bodies rise as one, thick blocks of glossy white ice floating through the air. The threshold is more than wide enough once Alucard opens the doors to funnel the great mound through, a few straggling beasts carried off on their own blocks following soon after.

It is silent, this night. The mad snowfall which had swarmed the castle the night of the attack has finally halted, and now not even a flurry bothers to drop from the dark sky. The ruins of the Belmont estate break above the treeline, and Alucard watches them from the corner of his vision as Sypha deposits the bodies in the clearing , shivering somewhat in her thin robes. Trevor steps towards her, radiating warmth in a very human manner, and Alucard stands off to the side, separate, unreached by the cold which has already claimed his body and consumed him since you’d left - since you’d been taken. 

He’s not slept the past day or two. Alucard’s been pacing the halls, rounding up bodies, his senses somehow overloaded and underwhelmed all at once - searching for sounds which aren’t there, for familiar voices which have gone silent. Frantically pushing himself forward and yet feeling as though he’ll collapse from exhaustion, finding and feeling nothing and everything all at once. Perhaps, he thinks, staring blankly ahead as Sypha tosses several balls of flame onto the makeshift pyres, he can rest soon. Not sleep, not fully, but… lie down. For a while. 

He loathes the thought of an empty bed, however. The feeling of waiting, knowing that there are other people in the castle, hearing them sleep, rustle around in the sheets. Those dead hours of darkness waiting for the sun to rise, hoping with increasing irrationality that he’ll awake whole and relieved of his sorrows, held together once more by your arms, by your touch. 

Cinders float up into the sky, mingling with frigid air. A few watery stars peer down mournfully at him as if they too lament your loss. Some part of him wonders if you see those same stars, wherever you are. If you’re held in a cell away from their light or by a window, peering out. 

He hopes you’re warm enough. That you’ve found something to wear besides boots and a bloody shift. 

A gust of wind blows some smoke in his eyes, or so he says, concealing the red tears falling down his cheeks with a filthy sleeve wiped hastily over his face. 

Either he is convincing in this ruse or Trevor and Sypha have the decency to not press him further as the bodies burn and burn until they are nothing but ash and loathsome memory. 

In something of a daze, Alucard takes his guests and leads them to yet another hall of the guest wing, keeping all prior encounters which have ended in ubiquitous tragedy compartmentalized. Perhaps he should stop showing guests to this particular wing - nothing good ever seems to come of it. 

“Any of these rooms are fine,” he says, hollowly, gesturing to the right of the hallway. “Bathing chambers are attached. I’m sure you can figure it out.”

They’d left almost immediately after killing Dracula before, not even taking the time to spend the night. Still, tales of the palace’s indoor plumbing had been discussed in the hold, and even if Trevor is perhaps too dense to remember, Alucard’s sure Sypha can get the sink and tub to work. 

They say something of gratitude, Alucard nods. For a moment, no one moves. Alucard admittedly can’t tell if they’re going to go into two separate rooms or if they’ll share one, and evidently, neither do they. 

Tired and uncaring for these charades of hospitality, he turns, gives them the illusion of privacy as he strides away in measured steps, pretending not to hear just the one door open and close, their footsteps muffling slightly inside. 

_Lovely_ , the thinks, somewhat coldly. _Company and romance all these months. Good for them._

It is a shallow, childish take on the subject, he knows, this bitterness. He makes it to the room you’d shared with him, pausing to take a breath before entering. 

It still smells like you, like honey, like warmth. 

Your dress, discarded on the floor next to the linen shirt he hadn’t bothered to put on before you both left. 

His eyes burn again, though this time he cannot attribute it to smoke. He sheds his grimy clothes like snakeskin before slithering into the spare shirt and reaching pitifully for the blue fabric your hands had shaped and molded and stitched together with the same tenderness you’d used to mend the shattered pieces of himself back into the semblance of a person. He pulls the covers over his shoulders, holding the garment tightly, wishing desperately and hopelessly that it could be more than unfeeling cloth, than the remnants you’d been forced to leave behind. 

A thought, half-formed and unplanned begins to form at the base of his skull, a harebrained idea brought about by the sudden, almost fortuitous arrival of a magician and a monster hunter right when he needed them most. Some cruel trick of fate that they hadn’t arrived sooner, of course, but also the work of fate to bring them here. 

His mind flashes to Styria, in the last few moments of lucidness. The expanse of parchment separating it from the castle. To the distance mirror in the Belmont Hold he hadn’t chanced venturing to yet, hadn’t chanced finding something in that glass surface he wouldn’t be able to unsee. Once again, he fears everything and nothing, contradictions abounding within his very nature. Seeing you dead, seeing you alive. Seeing you at all, or what has been done to you. The coldness he feels is a poor mask for the rage, a poor dampener. Should the fragile balance of his present psyche be upset, should he find you gone from this world entirely…

He isn’t sure what he’d do, but it does frighten him. Immensely, as if he’s at the edge of a cliff, requiring only the slightest wind to provoke him off the edge and plunge him into spiraling, abyssal madness.

This must have been what his father felt. Alucard is certain of it. 

Who, then, will stop him should he fall? 

Who can save him if he's already lost?


	36. Frigid Welcomes

You no longer enjoy flying. Not this kind, anyway. 

Frigid night air burns your cheeks, snow pelts your skin. There’s an old fur tied around your shoulders at least, but you still can’t stop shivering.

The beast shifts beneath your thighs, its sinuous wings beating back and forth with great bursts of energy. You’re hurtling forward at an alarming pace, sandwiched between its neck and the firm torso of your captor behind you, her strong arms holding reins on either side. You are thankful for the restraint, for once. Your wrists are still tied and you are sure that you would topple off the night creature if given the unfortunate opportunity. 

You haven’t eaten in who knows how long, and you fear that it’s been a concerning length of time since you’ve had anything to drink. You don’t know how long you were unconscious before rousing in time to hear the discussion, nor do you know how long you’ve slept since. It could be as long as three full days or as short as one day to night cycle - you cannot rightly tell. 

Nor can you ask. Your throat still feels slick and inflamed, and when you tried to cough out a question when you’d been kicked awake several hours prior, all that came out was a burning wheeze. This is alarming, of course, but there are larger issues to face than being a temporary mute with a bruised neck, because the snow covered tundra far beneath you twists and lurches and leads to mountains, to fortifications. You fly over several encampments, torchlight marking their positions. You don’t recall the map Adrian drew with any clarity, so you cannot get a good sense of your bearings, but soon enough you don’t have to. The bone-spires of the Styrian castle you’ve seen once before leer off the ground like some dead, forgotten thing, pale blue orbs of light lining the walls.

A rasping ‘caw’ soars above, and you look up just in time to see a small, dark shape break its circling motions above the castle to fall swiftly down to a palace courtyard. Moments later, your own beast dives, cutting through the air like a honed blade, and you see guards in white livery flanking the fortress, anonymous and intimidating and all encompassing as they almost blend into the very stones they guard. You know you shouldn’t think it, but they are rather elegant in their danger. Distinctly otherworldly, down to the way they stand stiller even than Adrian as the creature you ride lands, a deep rumbling sound reverberating in its chest as some sort of speech entirely lost on you. 

Striga dismounts first, heavy boots resonating throughout the stone courtyard as she plants them firmly on the ground. She turns to stare expectantly at you, cold green eyes narrowing with intent, her wild dark hair blowing roughly against her pale, hardened face. 

You do try to dismount, to hoist one leg over the other and slide down the leathery gray skin of the night creature you’ve spent the last eight hours or so riding, but your shift does not allow for much movement, and your limbs have gone quite numb. 

The two other night creatures land sharply behind the first just then, one a dark, sickly yellow and the other a somewhat brownish purple, and their sudden appearance startles you into clumsily toppling down the side of the one you’re on, and just before you’re about to catch yourself on the hard floor with your forearms, an impossibly large hand grabs your bicep and tugs you sharply to your feet. Striga huffs in annoyance as she releases you in order to grab a large bag strapped to the creature’s back. For lack of any other option and assuming that you won’t be eaten for your action, you momentarily lean into its side as your legs threaten to give out beneath you, your head reeling.

Ahead of you, a large, arched door opens across the courtyard, flooding torchlight out into the night which envelopes you in its darkness. Squinting through the haze of blood rushing to your head and the change in light making your eyes finch in adjusting, you make out three tall figures walking forward with the third walking a few paces behind the first two, a shadow perched on its shoulder.

Striga walks confidently forward, her shoulders relaxing as she greets them. 

“You took too long,” one of the foreground figures says, her voice unrecognizable to you. Unlike Striga’s fur coats and thick leather belts which had dug into your back the whole flight, she and the other woman beside her are clothed in elegant dresses of almost shocking vibrancy, their cuts and silhouette quite different from anything you’ve ever seen even a courtier wear. The taller of the two women, the one which spoke, wraps long, graceful arms around Striga, and you notice elegant claws on her fingers before they disappear into furs and fabrics. 

“It’s only been a month, Morana,” Striga says, pulling back. Her voice, or what little you can catch of it amidst the wind and the distance, is considerably softer than what you’d heard in the few gruff sentences she’d afforded you along the journey. You aren’t quite sure what to make of it yet, but you take a note to remember. 

The other woman’s red hair and slightly shorter stature rule her out as being someone different from Carmilla, who’s ice-hued skin, hair, and eyes accessorized by crimson nails and lips still makes your stomach lurch when you conjure up her image, the sight of a ruthless queen seen in the Belmont mirror. This woman turns large, dark eyes to you, and she tilts her head appraisingly, taking in your haggard, unruly appearance and near inability to so much as support your own weight. 

She says something over her shoulder which you don’t quite catch, and the third figure steps into full view a moment after. 

He’s tall, with broad shoulders emphasized by a well-fitting tunic that tapers to a trim waist, tied in a silk sash. Silver hair cut bluntly above the tunic’s collar curtains his thin face as he slowly steps towards you, staring resolutely at the ground before him. You scan his person for weapons, but find none among the pristine folds of his clothes. A raven - the same beastly raven you’d seen from the study window, you realize, recognizing its blue eyes and ruffled feathers, is perched on those broad shoulders, tilting its head at you inquisitively and digging sharp claws into his flesh. In your effort to look away from the bird who feels as unnatural to you as the night creatures, you turn to the man’s face, trying to read him before he gets the chance to inspect you. There’s a cut you notice above his brow that seems to be fresh, scabbing over with some light bruising, and a faint scar near his mouth tells of a split lip somewhere in his not too distant past. His skin isn’t nearly as translucent as Striga’s or even Adrian’s for that matter, but you do get the sense that his complexion would benefit from some time spent in sunlight, as some olive undertones to his skin suggest that it is naturally a good bit darker than what you see before you. 

His eyes flit up to you briefly as he stands an arm’s length away, a cold, steel-blue. 

There’s more fire in them than you were expecting, but they are decidedly human. 

“Can you walk?” he asks, his voice fairly low and soft. Young, even, despite his hair. Mid twenties, perhaps. His gaze catches on your throat, and while you haven’t seen the damage for yourself, you have no doubt that it is a less than pleasant sight.

Not being able to answer, you push off the night creature’s side, your legs stiff and spasming as you get the sensation of being stabbed by thousands of little needles. You do regain some sense of feeling in your limbs, though not to the extremities, as your fingers and toes remain quite numb. The heavy fur thrown over your shoulders slips off as you straighten yourself to maintain some semblance of dignity, but with your bound hands you are unable to pull it back up, leaving you shivering in this palace of death and stone wearing nothing but a blood drenched nightgown. You’re aware of the five sets of prying eyes on your prone figure, but much like when you were recovering from the shock of the very first night creature attack, modesty is a lesser concern than safety. Your eyes, half-mad, dart from face to face as they stare back, expressions tempered and otherworldly and unreadable as a result.

The redhead walks over to you, a disarming, pitying look on her sweet face. 

You can’t find it within yourself to trust her.

“Goodness, you’re in a state,” she says, her eyes roving up and down your body once more, resting on the stones by your booted feet. “Hector, the fur.”

The silver haired man bends stiffly to the ground, and soon the fur has been thrown over your shoulders once again. Hector takes a step back, maintaining distance from both you and, you note, the woman. 

“I expect we can find you something better to wear soon enough,” the woman sighs. You recognize her voice from the overheard mirror conversation, and presume her name to be Lenore. There is something quite pleasant to her, you think as she gestures for you to begin walking rather gracelessly to the palace. Pointed ears peek out behind her half-braided hair, and you catch glimpses of fangs whenever she speaks, but her hands are small and her nails short and well kept. There is a lightness to her which Striga lacks. You walk in the middle of the four bodies plus the raven as you step over the threshold and into equally dismal looking, blue-tapestry lined hallways. You steal glimpses of your escorts’ profiles as you go along, trying to pick up on their mannerisms, their personalities. On anything that you can use to your advantage later. 

This is an old way of thinking for you, a mindset you’d hoped you could forget and move past with the safety in Adrian’s embrace to keep you from harm, but obviously not. 

Morana keeps her face quite neutral, though the expression contains an inherent amount of disdain. Behind her, Striga stares down the hall ahead, focused on the distance and sure of her movements. To your right, Lenore - her fur-lined cape gliding along the carpet runner which muffles the sounds of her low-heeled boots. Hector follows in her wake, head down, shoulders squared, movements practiced. You get the sense he is about as comfortable as you are yourself, and it seems as though he’s actively trying to take up as little room as possible.

The raven squawks at you, and you snap your head forward just as you’re about to trip on the upturned edge of a runner. 

You stumble a little, but manage to catch your footing. You do not miss how Morana mutters “humans” under her breath, nor how Striga smirks ever so slightly.

So, you turn your attention to your surroundings instead, on the ways the corridors turn and merge and all look as one. That must be something all vampire castles share - even after having spent months with Adrian, the palace wasn’t something that you knew how to navigate particularly well. Everything is so vast and grandiose that everything looks the same after awhile. You try to see out windows, to mark your locations in that way, but the windows fall predominantly to your left, and Striga’s large form covers most of them from view. What little glimpses you do manage to catch are all as identical as the hallways - snow capped mountains as far as your eyes can see. Certain death if you run. A likely demise if you stay. 

Lovely. 

After what feels like an hour of walking from hallway to hallway which you know doesn’t really take more than a few minutes, you arrive at a pair of double doors flanked by guards who rally to attention when the vampire sisters round the corner. The doors are thrown open, and you’re led into a room which is painfully familiar.

Tall, arching windows loom on the far wall, stars flashing pleadingly at you from within a dark dismal expanse. Red curtains hang over the arches in them, setting a fitting backdrop for a massive, round table heralded by four chairs ornate enough to be thrones. Maps are strewn across this expanse, lit by a fireplace casting warm light over the scene, a light which seems almost comically out of place amidst the coldness of the scene, and of the woman who awaits you within it.

She fits so well into the pale walls, the red hangings, the grand architecture, that you didn’t notice her upon first glance into the room. Her coloring like ice and blood, her poise and stature as still as death itself. 

Carmilla narrows her eyes at you, at Striga. At Hector. 

“Lose the bird,” she eventually sighs, contempt and disgust shaping each word through pursed lips. 

Beside you, Hector stills for a moment. You lower your head, watch him from the corner of your vision as he stiffly raises a hand to swat gently at the talons gripping him. The bird makes a noise of utter indignance before flapping its wings. It swoops towards your head, and you instinctively duck. You feel the sharp sting of feathers whipping your cheek before it glides away, the sound of it fading down the echoing corridors. 

Morana, Lenore, and Hector walk forward, all with different strides to each other. Powerful, airy, and resigned respectively. You pause, not wanting to get closer, not wanting to get within grasping distance of Carmilla, but before you can even make a real choice to stand your ground, you’re dragged forward once more, a strong hand on your biceps keeping you upright even when you trip yet again. Your fingers and toes are still quite numb despite the blood being pumped sluggishly through your body by a racing heartbeat. The satchel Striga took from the night creature’s back rests between the both of you, and you know it contains the mirror shards. You can feel them digging into your skin, of course, but you also sense their magic, that bit of tingling fog that hints at it’s semi-sentience. 

A familiar presence, at least. Perhaps an ally - your only ally, if you can reach it.

Lenore perches on the edge of the table, crossing her legs at the knee and arranging her skirt and cape to rest picturesquely around her. Morana slides into one of the throne-like chairs and reaches for a full glass of what you doubt to be wine. Carmilla remains standing, her willowy arms bare despite the chill, her hands planted in a wide stance over an impressive sprawl of maps covered in metal markers which are obviously of some strategic significance, though their exact meaning is lost on you. 

“How bad are things at the border?” Striga says, depositing you rather roughly a few feet into the room, giving you a wide berth in the space between the swiftly closing double doors and the massive table which looks even more intimidating from your place on the floor. 

“Fucking awful,” Carmilla bites. You cannot see her face from where you pull yourself into a slightly more comfortable sitting position, and from the tone in her voice, you are glad of it. “The bastard took over our eastern foothold after you left. We’ve fallen back to fucking _Mohacs_.”

Striga curses under a sigh, and you take this brief moment to breathe, to assess your injuries. Your wrists aren’t nearly as badly rope burned as they were following your dash through the woods, nor is your ankle broken, as far as you can tell. You’re cold, and tired, and bruised all over, and that adrenaline-sharpness has returned, making everything a little too loud, a little too bright. You don’t seem to be drawing any attention, at least. Not at present. None of the vampires so much as glance in your direction as they mutter things you don’t register, names of towns they’ve lost or gained, their plans moving forward. You try to appear small, weak. It isn’t particularly difficult to do given your present circumstances, but perhaps if you appear docile and complacent they’ll be gentler with you in the long run. 

You do feel eyes on you, however, and you turn to your right Hector stands by the fire, silent and still. You had almost forgotten about him, to be honest. Where Carmilla had blended into the background out of being as much a part of her castle as the drapes and the stone, Hector’s easily missed presence is due to his stillness amongst shadows and firelight. Not the stillness of a vampire, but that quiet, barely discernible motion that stationary humans have, the kind where he shifts his weight to one foot, then the other, his chest rising and falling, his hair catching the flames' merriment and becoming more bronze than silver, though never as splendid as Adrian’s molten gold halo. Nothing could be that beautiful.

You don’t know what puts the thought into your head, but the flickering flames seem drawn to him nearly as much as starlight is to Adrian.  
Regardless, he breaks eye contact the second you catch him staring. 

“We use the mirror to get across the blockade, then,” Lenore pipes up, matter-of-factly. “You brought it, didn’t you? It must be big enough.”

Striga jostles the satchel as answer. You feel your shoulders tense at the turn in conversation, as you anticipate being called upon to demonstrate its use, as you dread the thought of standing up and tracing the spell of intent with frigid, trembling hands. 

“Are there limitations to how we can use it?” Morana says, leaning forward slightly. “Does it cost resources, have a defined range? What about a refractory period?”

“No,” Carmilla smiles, softly. “As far as I’m aware we can use the mirror until that creature Striga brought along with it collapses. Or tells us how to use it.”

Lenore turns her head, making a chiding sound with her tongue behind her teeth. “Well, that’s hardly sustainable. Striga’s already nearly broken its neck. I don’t think we’ll be getting instructions any time soon, willingly or not.”

She winks over her shoulder at you, as if the both of you have some great secret. Your eyes, desperate for anything to look at besides her face, besides the kindness she’s injected into a gesture so very at odds with the situation, fall to her dainty hands. There is a ring of what you assume to be a gray metal which is not silver on one of her index fingers, and a simple, twisting band where a wedding ring would traditionally rest.   
Curious, you then try to catch a glimpse of the other’s hands, but you cannot see any of them from your vantage point. 

“Hector needs time to rebuild the army anyway,” Lenore continues to her companions. “Striga should rest, and we need to fortify a plan.”

“What do you think I’ve _been_ doing?” Carmilla hisses from behind her teeth. 

Lenore merely smiles and hops off the table. “Overworking yourself. We have the mirror, we have a way to use it. We’re all back together now, Hector hasn’t gotten himself killed yet. And now we have the advantage. You can rest for a day, Carmilla.”

“I’m sleeping for at least two,” Striga snorts, getting up and stretching. “You want to hear anything I learned, you wait.”

Morana downs the rest of her cup’s contents. “I’ll come find you after you’ve had a bath,” you hear her mutter as Striga passes. Her harsh face smirks a little, but the expression is lost when she passes you. 

For a moment, you’re afraid she’ll kick you again, or haul you to your feet and make you walk. Instead, she just shakes her head and wrinkles her nose in passing. 

“Speaking of baths,” Lenore says with a drawn out, lilting tone to make a shiver race down your back. 

“It’s _filthy_ , Lenore,” Carmilla says, a hand to her temple and without looking up from the maps. “Give it a bucket or something, it reeks.”

It takes a moment for you to realize that you are the thing being spoken about. 

_It._

Well, you _are_ filthy, there is no denying that. Though, a bucket hardly seems like it would be the best solution. 

Lenore hums, low and fairly nicely. Do all vampires have pretty voices, you wonder? You shake the thought from your mind, blaming your wandering thoughts on your lack of sleep and general sense of exhaustion. You aren’t sure you could trust yourself in Adrian’s copper tubs to not fall asleep at this moment - you feel as though you could sleep on a bed of nails. 

You won’t though, of course. Not when you’re still outmatched, outnumbered. Watched and dehumanized and humiliated. 

You curl into yourself a little further, though your arms press your palms firmly into the ground. Your fingers have begun to feel again - and they burn. They ache. Some fresh blood seeps through the cracking, chapped skin at your knuckles, joining into the grime on your hands already. You wonder how much of the dried brown flecks in the creases of your skin is Adrian’s blood and how much is dirt. You wonder if they can smell _him_ on you even still, smell the aftermath of what you’d done in between sheets and witnessed only by firelight and stars. 

Below the bindings on your wrist, you see two neat puncture wounds. Sitting about half a finger’s length apart from each other. Still fairly fresh - only covered by the thinnest start of scabbing. It’s not been more than a day or two, then, since you’d left. Since Adrian had almost -

“Hector,” Lenore sighs, startling both you and the strangely forgettable forgemaster. “You know the way to the cells. Those should do for now.”  
Oh god, you’re to be a prisoner yet. 

“Which wing?” he asks, not quite looking at her. 

Fears which you haven’t had to deal with since you escaped the back of the horsecart come flooding back once again, worries about Adrian’s castle, his intentions before you knew how kind and sweet and - 

“Oh one of the nicer ones,” she says dismissively. “She’s not nearly the vile sort of thing you were when you first arrived.”

Again, you see her share a look of confidence with you before she reaches over the table to snatch a map marker. 

Carmilla looks as though she’s ready to throw the whole set at whoever dares to speak next. “Lenore, the _smell_.”

Hector comes walking slowly over to you, staring down expectantly, distantly. 

Mustering your resolve, you gather what remains of your shift so that you don’t trip on it as you shakily rise to your feet. You cross your arms protectively over your chest, and once Hector seems certain that you aren’t going to topple over with the effort, he juts his chin to the door, and the both of you begin to shuffle forward. 

Despite being carted off to what you anticipate being an awful cell regardless of Lenore’s instruction, your shoulders relax just a little as you leave what you assume is the strategy room, as those imposing double doors are shut behind you again, sending a rush of air through your unkempt hair. 

Hector stands a little straighter, though his eyes remain downcast. You keep expecting him to say something, to chide you as the others had, to call you ‘it’ as well.

He does not. 

In fact, he doesn’t do much of anything. Aside from walking with you down the series of hallways which lead ever deeper into the castle, lower and lower and lower, Hector doesn’t so much as look at you. You steal glances at him from the corner of your eye to make sure. You aren’t even sure he’d chase you if you made a run for it, but you know there is nowhere for you to go, and there are guards stationed every few doorways. 

You wonder absently why there’s so much security - why the vampire women were so agitated. Vaguely, you recall the other forgemaster Adrian had mentioned as you turn the final corner after what seems like nearly half an hour of trudging through monotonous halls. More guards flank these doors, and they glance at each other for a moment before opening them as well. You hold your breath, waiting for iron bars, for depraved souls to be your inmates.

Instead, the room staring back at you is empty. There are several large areas divided by bars, of course, but there is warm torchlight illuminating the entire space. It’s warm too - far nicer than any cold pit you dared imagine. Certainly better than the cave you’d spent the night prior in, though you appear to be given the floor once again. 

To your right, there is a cell with a blanket kicked into the corner and a writing desk near the wall. The door is open. 

“You don’t want that one,” Hector says flatly, steering you to the left. 

You want to ask why not, especially since the space he herds you into is completely and utterly barren, but without a voice, all you can do is shoot him a somewhat confused, pitiable glare as you march morosely into the cell. You make it two steps in before you turn around and present your still tied wrists. 

Hector stares at them for a moment, and shuts the door. 

“I can’t do what they don’t specifically ask of me.”

You raise an eyebrow, but after giving him a moment to decline or clarify, you lower your hands and glance around you once again. There’s so much you want to ask, to try and bargain for. 

“You can’t talk at all?” he asks, finally looking you in the eyes. 

You make a half strangled, painful sounding croak, and the both of you grimace. Hector rubs his own neck as if he's experienced a similar sensation.

“You’ll probably get food, and water at some point. If they don’t forget. Take it. Don’t fight back. They won’t kill you for it, but you’ll wish they had.”

His eyes rest on your hair, or your ear. They don’t meet yours again, and neither of you move for a long time. 

He turns to leave, making it a few paces before he pauses, turns slightly over his shoulder. “You have a skill they value, if you really can use that mirror,” he says on an exhale. “Use that to your advantage before it is too late.”

As you process the words, Hector leaves, and despite only being able to see his back, you can't help but think he looks - and sounds - rather sad. Not the ever-present, occasionally satiable melancholy your love is afflicted with, but the sadness of someone who’s spirit has been crushed. He’s not at all who you were expecting. Anyone who sides willingly with Carmilla must be terrible, not to mention that he’s a forgemaster, that he’s the one responsible for the beasts which nearly killed Adrian. 

Any vague sympathy you might have had for Hector vanishes in that instant as you try to force the image of Adran’s body impaled by claws, the squelching sound of it ripping out as he tumbled to the floor out of your mind.

You half stumble, half lower yourself into the center of the rather large cell as you tell yourself that he’s alive - that he _has_ to be alive. That you’ll see him again, one way or another. 

The cell around you is silent aside from the torchlight, the crackle and pop of charred, oiled wicks. Gradually, you lie on your side, staring at the lantern flames and imagining they are the hearth in your shared bedroom, that the hard floor beneath you is a bed covered by a wine red duvet. That Arian is resting behind you, tracing words into your skin with a soft fingertip. 

Hours pass, and the firelight does not dwindle, shrouding you in ever present awareness in this cursed existence you’ve fallen so gracelessly into.

Somehow, you’ve never felt more cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi loves - I'm sorry I've been a little unresponsive as of late - real life picked up its pace for me. I plan to respond to all the comments on the previous chapter as well as any left on this one over the weekend 💛


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